


hiraeth

by gryffindormischief



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Damsels in Distress, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, tropewizard tournament 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindormischief/pseuds/gryffindormischief
Summary: It may be childish to dream of rescue by a gallant knight, adventure in a far off kingdom, and a happily ever after life of wedded bliss, but hope is a good way to survive most things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is for the tropewizard tournament on tumblr!
> 
> Couldn't have finished this without help from fightfortherightsofhouseelves, celtics534, little-prongs, julxette, and inakindofadaydream's blind support (hehe)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic! Split into 2 parts for manageability in reading, but I'm posting them both now!

Sunlight spears through the slim windows of Harry’s tower bedroom.  He’s fairly certain it’s a former prison cell with a mite infested bed shoved inside, but it’s better than sleeping in the stables most nights.  Except during the sticky summer months.

Those nights, Harry trips his way through the secret passages and forgotten servant’s stairwells and sleeps under the stars, towering trees swaying overhead and the air blessedly cool.

Fall has just set in, turning the leaves gold and red and swift winds whistling through the corridors.  

It’s cold, when he sleeps, but Harry’s managed to hunt enough in secret to get himself a few pelts to keep his fingers and toes in place, despite the threadbare state of his Dursley-supplied bedding.  Before, he’d just slept cuddled close with whatever animals in the barns would let him near enough to share body heat.

When he turned twelve, he met a strange woman in the woods who called herself Figg and offered him a bit of rabbit in exchange for his silence.  The Dursleys were far from merciful, particularly to poachers on land that belonged to _the crown_.  Which was in effect, anywhere that flourished with living things.  

Harry had never been a fan of tattling to the Dursleys - they always seemed to find a reason it was his fault - and he’d been on half portions at meals for the last week.  

So Harry kept his mouth shut and Figg valued that, and somehow she and her lantern-eyed tabby ended up meeting him as often as possible, training him to hunt and trap without detection.

After a while, Harry took over the majority of the work.  Figg wasn’t getting any younger and the law wasn’t getting any kinder.

Not that he would get any special treatment if he were caught.  In fact, the Dursleys enjoyed _inventing_ reasons to punish Harry.  God forbid he do something they actually have law-based reasons to throw the proverbial book at him.  Vernon threw enough _real_ books at Harry just for _existing_.

Figg still set the traps with Harry often enough, they’d wander through the least traversed paths of the forest - at least by humans - checking and resetting.  

As time passed, Harry became a better marksman, able to fell most animals from a great distance, preserving the hides so he and Figg were kept warm in the winter months.

It was one of the first real cold snaps of the year, Harry’d turned fifteen just a few months before, and he was holed up in a favorite tree.  The branches provided an excellent perch to keep Harry hidden from animals and humans alike while avoiding the melty snow seeping into his boots.

At least they _did_ , until the soft leather of his shoes slips on the bark and he falls headlong toward the soggy grass.  He doesn’t even have time to think, at least not anything more than the general concept that he would like to not die, and then suddenly he comes to a complete halt.  

But his abrupt stop is not the bone wrenching, life ending crash to the sodden earth he expected.  Instead, it’s pretty much how he’d imagined landing on a cloud would feel. Or like that time he slept in Dudley’s bed when the Dursleys were visiting their coastal retreat for the summer.

Harry jolts, his fingers barely brushing the ground before he falls the remaining inch or two.  He’s alone, so there’s no one to corroborate his story. Or turn him in. Which is lucky mostly, since the Dursleys are big fans of persecuting anyone with a hint of anything unusual about them.  Scandalous artists, alchemists, and _definitely_ people who exhibit _magical_ tendencies.

The issue drops - unlike Harry’s body - until he’s at Figg’s house one night and she’s telling him some old story about the Dursleys history of oppression in the kingdom in general.  And in particular, the seizure of the Figg family’s lands and subsequent murder of her entire family when they tried to defend their property.

Her mother, apparently, snuck Arabella - she scowled any time Harry even _looked_ like he was going to use her given name - out through the kitchens just before the house burned.

The specifics weren’t particularly important to the moment.  Harry heard enough and after a particularly brutal week with his in-name-only family, his temper flared and so did the fire.

Flames licked over the stones and Harry jolted back.  Figg, however, simply looked like she’d just placed the final piece of a puzzle.

She made him some tea with chamomile, tucked him up with a homemade quilt, and wove the tale of a mythical land where magic was practiced by everyone, from the poorest villager to the royal family.

It was a beautiful dream, and Harry was resigned to it remaining just that.  But Figg assured him that though she didn’t inherit the gift, she came from a long line of witches, wizards, and what have you.

Harry wasn’t _quite_ sure why, but the idea didn’t seem so strange.  In fact, it felt like a long lost explanation for a million little things.  Escaping Dudley and his cronies with a quick ‘climb’ up to the barn roof, his hair growing back after Petunia ordered a made to take to Harry’s scalp with a straight edge razor like he was being drafted as a monk, and any other number of odd events from as early as he can remember.

After the day with the fire, Figg made it her life’s work to help Harry hone his gifts, or as well as she could given the circumstances.  It really was necessary, considering everything he read promised control and concealment would be much easier the more he practiced.

After long mornings spent sneaking through the forest, and late nights practicing magic, Harry’s days were full and he was often too tired to notice the lumps in his musty palette.  And it all feels worth it, his magic is under control and most days his belly is full enough that he doesn’t fall asleep with his stomach rumbling.

Until the first rumors hit.  They’re relatively innocuous, as far as allegations of what’s been categorized as treason can be, and pretty unsubstantiated.  

Which doesn’t make Harry any safer from the Dursley’s anger in the home, but it spares him a very brutal and public execution.

Though none of that means he avoids attracting interest from other kingdoms, which inhibits some of the Dursley’s attempts at diplomacy, but wins them many more trade deals than they lose.  Lucky for Harry.

It’s not much of a loss for Harry, the Dursleys having strong suspicions about his magical abilities.  In fact, they seem a bit afraid of him and tend to lighten up on their usual mistreatments. That was when Harry was promoted from stable boy to barely acknowledged human shoved into a drafty tower that will _hopefully_ keep him far away from them and their daily lives.

He has to adapt a bit.  The warmth, bed, and mostly un-leaky roof are certainly an improvement but he does miss the ease of escaping the barn without notice.

Mostly, his life stays the same.  Harry grows taller, hunting and training in the woods with Figg build lean muscle and bring a healthy glow to his skin, and his weight stays solid from the spoils of their work.  All this means Dudley’s ease of oppression goes down - the Dursleys never did favor battling an equal - and Harry’s life attains a certain level of happiness. Comparatively.

Until he turns seventeen, which apparently means he’s of marriageable age, which makes him an asset to be traded.

All this comes together suddenly the fall after his birthday - an event marked by a few sweet cakes Figg traded some rabbit skins for at the market earlier that morning.  Neither of them were particularly adept with non-roasting culinary exploits and Harry was grateful for her acknowledgment of the fact.

When he arrives back at the castle, just after dinner, a footman greets him at the door and grumpily tells Harry the Dursleys are waiting for him in the study.

Everything after that is a strange, blurry whirlwind of activity and Harry feels like he drags through the weeks in a fog.  

There will be a tournament for his ‘hand’ in the loosest sense.  The winning kingdom will win Harry, with no real restrictions on what can or should be done with him.  In return, the Dursleys get rid of their human sized pest and a sizeable dowry.

From what Figg can gather in her trade sessions - gossip and goods - there’s a pretty even split over people who want to introduce Harry’s magic into the royal bloodline and those who would like to use him to make an example of him for the already suffering magical communities in their kingdoms.

He always figured the Dursleys would ship him off with the army on some fool’s errand and then ‘lose’ him in the process.  The biggest loss would be Figg, but they’ve discussed the issue.  She assures him that first, he couldn’t throw away that kind of escape on her, and second, that she was spry but not going to be around forever.

Plus, letters were a definite possibility.  They could both read and write, and he could always send for her if it came down to it.

Still, she embraces him tightly the night before the tournament begins and swipes a few stray tears as he disappears into the forest.

Now, in the light of day but the safety of his room, Harry can admit to himself that he has some level of excitement at the coming day.  Sure, there’s a good amount of danger involved in the whole event, but Harry’s entire life, his safety has hung on a very fragile string with Vernon’s hammy fingers ready to snap it.  This at least, gives him the possibility of a new life far away from the ever disapproving Dursleys.

Hell, he’d maroon himself on an island for a chance to live in _peace_.

For the first time in his life, servants appear at Harry’s door bearing something other than ill will, and shoo him to the bathing room with lots of clucking and pinching.

He’s scrubbed within an inch of his life - he really would have preferred to do so himself - then powdered and shoved into a slightly musty smelling brocade tunic.  It’s a little large, but better than it could have been. Harry can almost picture Dudley wearing it when they were twelve and eleven, respectively.

His trousers tuck into his boots - the usual pair but rendered almost unrecognizable without muck and dirt covering the leather - and Harry’s off to the kitchens where a crusty bit of bread and a chunk of cheese are shoved into his hands.

Though he can’t be sure, Harry’s fairly certain this is the most thought anyone in the Dursley household has put into his well-being in seventeen years.

The tournament grounds are on the far side of the castle from Figg’s woods, so she’ll either have to hide herself among the gawkers or get the update long after he’s shipped off to God knows where.  

Through the years, he’s been allowed to attend a few scant events held on the tournament grounds.  Jousting, marksmanship, and various types of combat. He’d be shuffled in with the servants to watch and make a good show of the Dursley’s might.  An extra young, able bodied male could only serve to impress visiting kingdoms.

This time, as he’s ushered to the tournament grounds, the poking and prodding hands lead him toward the royal family’s box and up the wooden stairs.  He’ll not sit directly with Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley, but just in front so Dudley can shove, kick, and pinch as much as he likes.

Harry takes it all with a smile, recalling his recent ‘visit’ to Dudley’s empty chambers and the little biting friends he left behind in the bedclothes.

Wherever he goes from here, he’ll be long gone before Dudder’s new affliction can be traced back, and Harry can’t keep the smile from his face.

Dudley nudges his shoulder, “What are _you_ grinning about?  Most of them want to kill you.”

Harry’s eyes find the caravans bearing the sigils of at least a dozen kingdoms, knights testing out their armor, warming up their muscles in the early morning light.  It’s mostly tall, mountain-like men with scarred faces and grim expressions, save one with silvery blond hair and a slim nose that seems perpetually upturned in disgust.  He appears skilled enough, though Harry wonders if he would deign to allow his sword to touch that of his unworthy opponents.

“It’ll be quicker than death by eu de Dudley after tonight’s guts-churning meal,” Harry shoots back, his repost slightly lacking as his attention is mostly turned to the knights in question.

Dudley doesn’t have answer beyond a sharp dig with his heel at Harry’s shoulder, and then seems otherwise occupied - the first refreshments of the day have arrived.

Ignoring the tempting aroma, Harry keeps his eyes on the caravans, straining to see the competitors and at least wager a guess which have a chance.

As he watches, a slight combatant emerges from one of the tents - banners crimson and gold - cowl pulled over his hair and shoulders set.  Despite the diminutive stature, Harry’s mildly optimistic. Sometimes, as he well knows, being the smaller of two means increased dexterity and clever thinking which can win a fight just as often as brute strength.

He’s followed by a taller lanky man probably around Harry’s age, lugging a simple helmet and whatever other bits of armor and equipment haven’t already been strapped in place.  

Harry’s eyes are about to flit away when the cowl slips back and the diminutive knight turns his - _her_ face toward Harry.  She’s squinting in the sun, gesturing toward the combat arena with broad strokes while her companion nods along.  He’s always been fairly sheltered, Harry has. Contact with other humans limited and the kingdom relatively sheltered from outsiders.  But it doesn’t make the thought that she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen feel like less of a heavy idea. If the crimson and gold of her kingdom’s coat of arms was rich, her hair leaves it behind, the chocolate mousse to the peasants’ rock cake.  That’s before he even begins to consider the set of her jaw, the sureness of her gait, the flash of light that seems to come from her smile. And then, as if he wasn’t already smitten, she shoves her companion - some relative because surely that fiery hair can’t be coincidence - and lets out a loud bark of laughter.

For all his life, defiant as he was, Harry realizes in that moment he’s never experienced that feeling.  Full, unrestrained joy. It loosens everything about her, shoulders relaxing, head tossed back, teeth flashing in a bright grin.  If he considers it, the taste of that feeling is what truly draws him to her. Maybe it’s catching.

But he can’t stare forever.  Fanfare announces the arrival of the king and queen and the mysterious knight disappears along with her companion.

Before long, the tournament is underway, the jousts come first and Harry’s heart pounds along with the horses’ hoofbeats.  Each knight had drawn sigils to select pairings for fairness sake, though Harry can’t help but think the tiny knight currently poised to battle against the hulking brute either named or at least nicknamed Goliath isn’t quite fair.

Harry’s wincing as they near each other, prepared for the utter destruction, when the smaller knight shifts her lance at the last moment and catches him in the soft space between his arm and breastplate.  Caught off guard as he is, Goliath jolts backward and slips from his horse, his weight making it nearly impossible to recover.

The blue and bronze knight’s helmet is removed and she simply dips her head demurely, dark hair shining in the sunlight as her opponent is half dragged from the arena.

Pairings pass by in somewhat of a blur after that, ending in the expected ways - snooty silver haired knight appears to cheat his way to a win though Harry’s got no proof - and Harry wishes he could slip away for an afternoon swim in the creek by Figg’s cottage, until the crimson and gold knight emerges and takes the field.

He can’t seem to drag his eyes away as her squire rechecks her armor and she mounts her steed.  Weasley, her surname according to the announcer, has been paired against Goyle, a known cheat who apparently believes the chivalric code is meant for all knights _except_ him.  He has a history of using underhanded tactics in all types of combat and courtly maneuverings.

Harry finds himself wishing Weasley was facing Goliath.  

She shares a few quick words with her squire, who gives her forearm a quick squeeze and then moves to the sidelines.  

The opponents square off and begin without hesitation, pounding toward each other unflinchingly.  Harry can’t tear his eyes away as the lances hit home, Goyle’s glancing off Weasley’s arm while hers jabs his shoulder hard enough that Harry almost believes the match will be over.  

Both knights stay seated and reset to their original positions, checking weapons and armor while Goyle confers with his sniveling squire.

Harry squeezes his fists so his nails bite into his palms while Dudley jeers somewhat nonsensically but seems to be favoring Goyle, and the two combatants begin again.  

It seems as though things will progress similarly as the first set, until Goyle shifts his stance at the last moment, lifting his lance so the gilded tip is aimed straight for Weasley’s head.  

There are few rules, in a tournament.  The whole point is generally destruction, bodily injury, and possibly death, for the sport and amusement of the masses.  But, the few that do exist, are generally held in high esteem, one of which, is that jousters are forbidden from making blows to the head.  

Everything happens so fast that Harry barely believes it, Goyle’s move, Weasley’s unfaltering charge, and finally her drop backward at the last second.  

Harry’s never seen anything like it.  She waited until Harry was completely certain the beautiful fiery woman would be wiped from existence and then fell back against her saddle even as her arm remained steady.

Goyle, in the belief that he would unseat his opponent before he would have to absorb a blow, did not brace for impact and is tossed halfway off his mount as Weasley’s lance shatters, sending a spray of splinters flying.  

The crowd erupts in a mix of awe and shouts of unfair play as Weasley brings herself upright.  She raises her free arm in acknowledgement before trotting back over to her side.

Everyone waits for Vernon to pronounce his judgment - namely that Goyle has been disqualified for actions unbefitting a knight - but are treated to an unhappy surprise.  Groans are quickly silenced when Vernon rises from his seat and squares his shoulders, the threat to their safety, livelihoods, and pocketbooks implicit.

Weasley, for her part, seems unsurprised, still seated and ready for their third and final joust.  Given the fact that Vernon has apparently been bought off, she’ll need to fully unseat Goyle to win.  Vernon’s an idiot, but he wouldn’t flagrantly contradict a clear victory.

Harry’s blood thunders in his ears, his breath caught in his chest.  The injustice of Goyle’s win would be punishment enough, but he’s somehow certain if Goyle isn’t knocked from contention here and now, Harry will be returning to his kingdom with no hope and a death sentence.

Weasley’s squire runs out and they exchange a few words before she gives him a quick nod and steers her horse toward the center of the arena.

The crowd cheers as soon as her lance hits home, dead center on Goyle’s breastplate and with an impact so definitive it sends him flying from his mount as if he’s been tugged by an invisible rope around his middle.

He falls to the ground in a cloud of dust and Harry fights the urge to rise to his feet along with the crowd, knowing any show of favor will doom Weasley more than beating Goyle already has.

A few remaining pairs compete, though they seem to pale in comparison in terms of excitement and when the stands clear for the midday meal, murmurs are mostly focused on Weasley’s defeat of Goyle.

When the time comes for the marksmanship challenge, Harry finds himself wishing he was allowed to compete.  Since he met Figg, he’s become pretty adept with a bow and arrow, and he’d love a chance to see the Dursleys gape at his ability.  But aside from the fact that he can’t very well compete for his own hand, doing so would pretty much provide all the proof necessary that Harry’s a frequent poacher on the king’s land.

So he watches, mentally tallying how many knights he’d best in a challenge, and munches on roasted nuts he’d bought with a few sickles he’d saved.  Until Weasley saunters up to her post in the second round of competitors, gait easy, eyes sharp, and braid dangling down against the back of her deep red tunic.  Unintentionally, Harry finds himself matching her inhale as she draws back on the bowstring and exhaling as she lets it fly.

The first shot lands just shy of a bullseye, but still leaves her among the top contenders as of yet.  She shakes out her arms and knocks the next arrow into place, exhaling as it fires and lands dead on. Her remaining shots cluster around the second and if she entered with a saunter, it’s a downright swagger as she leaves.  

Harry’s not had much chance to fancy anyone before now, just a few girls from afar, but he’s in danger of taking his first real plunge at possibly the worst time.  Or best, depending on tomorrow’s outcome.

Under the guise of keeping the ‘prize’ safe, the Dursleys prevent Harry from attending the feast held to honor the first day’s winners, a few castle guards ushering him toward his tower without so much as a bowl of broth.  Harry had long since learned their tendency to ‘forget’ he needed to eat and kept a reasonably sized stash of food in his room, enough to fill his stomach but not so much to draw the attention of the large vermin that wandered the castle’s halls.   _Or rats_.

It’s early yet, and despite the day’s excitements, Harry’s used to being active, tiring himself out until his bones ache with it.  Now, the moon’s overhead, his mind is alight with the thought that tomorrow night, for better or worse, he’ll be leaving Privet forever.

After his second meal of bread and cheese of the day, Harry tries to read, paces the floor, and finally finds himself staring out his sliver of a window toward the castle grounds and Figg’s forest beyond.  

Chin propped on his hand, Harry’s eyes trip over the familiar scenery, silvery in the moonlight, until a figure emerges from somewhere below.  

At first, he can barely make out specifics, light dim as it is, but as soon as she steps into the pale glow of the moon, he sees that fiery mane and identifies her in an instant.

She’s traded her knight’s garb for a wine colored gown, the skirts dragging in the swaying grasses as she wanders into the night.  

Weasley’s only alone for a few minutes before another figure slips from the castle.  A woman - the dark haired knight who bested Goliath. Weasley stiffens at first, and despite her more feminine attire, appears no less ready to do battle, but gradually relaxes as she listens intently.

It’s a fairly short interchange and then the dark haired knight fades back into the castle.  

Harry lingers at his window while Weasley takes in the grounds, his breath catching when she turns and seems to look directly at him.  He’s locked in place, frozen as she stares upward, and only relaxes once she shifts her gaze and re-enters the castle.

* * *

 

The following morning proceeds much as the first, though Harry slept considerably less and finds himself tense with apprehension.  Apparently his nerves at the possibility of imminent death have decided to make their presence known. He barely chokes down a bit of bread and takes a few swallows of ale before he’s lead to the arena once again.

Clouds drift by overhead, speedy with the wind’s gusts and Harry feels a shiver run down his spine as the chill whips through him as if he were bare.  

Dudley and the Dursleys emerge from the castle not long after he’s been seated, festooned in their best and most dramatic furs.  Apparently they wanted to sell Harry like they didn’t have two pence to click together but act like they owned the continent.

The number of competitors has been significantly cut after yesterday’s events, with only six pairs scheduled to fight and the rest of the day reserved for preparation for and participation in overdone festivities.  Supplies had been arriving by the wagon full for weeks. Apparently, the Dursleys are quite excited to see Harry leave.

He’ll likely be allowed to attend, merely to save face.  He’d tucked his few belongings into his battered trunk that morning, mostly reminders of Figg and some books they’d bartered for in the market.  Plus two disguised tomes on magic he hoped to use to keep up his study.

Jousting was certainly dangerous, with archery slightly less so, but the sword fights feel as if they hold the most risk, though Harry can’t say that’s empirically true.

It might be the closeness of the combattants, the way the sunlight glints off sharpened steel that could split hairs and guts with equal ease.

The first few bouts end handily for the victors, pairs weeding out the weak links before the final round with the last two standing knights battle for Harry’s ‘hand.’  Weasley dispatches the silver haired cheat of a knight quickly enough and she leaves the ring without knocking a bit of hair out of her coronet.

She tilts her head with a bit of arrogance as she departs, that same rebellious attitude Harry found himself definitively attracted to since she sauntered onto the playing field the previous morning.

The dark haired knight comes a pair later - Chang is her name apparently - and works with the precision and speed Harry came to expect after her performance yesterday.  

Now weeded down to the final three competitors, the targets are brought out again, though the weapons of choice this time are wickedly sharp spears hung with streamers denoting each knight’s colors.  If Harry didn’t know any better he’d assume this was an extended audition to determine which knight was expert in the most ways to kill him.

Chang and Weasley easily best McLaggen and are heralded as the final combatants before being shuffled off while the crowds seek out a quick meal before the final bout.  Harry’s sneaking around the back of the castle to hopefully swipe something warm from the kitchens or at least an apple or two, when he runs headlong into something warm, solid, and...flowery.

From his place sprawled in the soft grass, she looks like some wild avenging angel, the sun high overhead surrounding her like a halo and glinting off the countless intricate colors shot through her waves.  He sees the moment recognition registers on her face and her mouth tightens before she offers him a hand up. “Clumsy thing aren’t you?”

Harry’s brows shoot up.  “It takes two to - whatever just happened.”

“You ran into me?” she supplies as he rises to his feet and brushes the dirt from his trousers.  

“I am, uh.  Harry.”

Then she grins like he imagined she would, that teasing tilt, eyes flashing with the exact type of danger you crave.  It almost sets him back on his arse, having the full brunt of her countenance focused solely on him. “Sure about that?”

“Better not damage the goods, or you’ll have Vermin and Petunia on you like a pair of jackals.”

She laughs and pats him on the shoulder, squeezing once before letting her hand fall back to her side.  “I can inflict a fair bit of harm myself, in case you had not managed to notice over the last day and a half.”

Harry hums.  “Aye, you’re a force to be sure.  Though some would say your archery could use a bit of work.”

Scoffing, she crosses her arms and lets her eyes drag over him from head to toe in two circuits.  “Well ‘some’ would do well to consider their braggadocious ways before challenging an as yet undefeated knight to anything combat related.”

Harry tilts his head, considering, before offering his hand.  She clasps it firmly and Harry knew exactly what she would do, given the opportunity.  Subtly, swiftly, her fingers find the telltale calluses that litter his palm and fingers, rough patches won through long hours with Figg.  Before, his chapped hands protested the work. Slices from snapped bowstrings, blisters from repeated practices - over time, they hardened over and his soft hands became tools of his work just as valuable as the bow and arrow.

She considers him once more before a small, softer smile tilts the corner of her mouth and their hands fall apart.  “Enjoy the tournament. I trust you’ll attend the festivities this evening? We were disappointed in your absence last evening.”

Harry notes the calculating look in her eye and holds her gaze for a moment as he responds, “Ah, yes.  My aunt and uncle can be quite... _protective_ of my appearances at court.  They fear for safety.”

As he hoped, she seems to note the absence of the qualifier that it’s _his_ safety that concerns his relatives.  “I will see you soon, Harry James.”

And with that mysterious use of his full name, Weasley steps past him and begins striding toward the caravans.  

“Wait!”

She twists, glancing back over her shoulder, cheeks sunkissed red.  “I am a knight you know. We’re respected members of society.”

Putting on equal levels of proper affectation, Harry dips his head.  “Of course. And I must know the full name of the knight whose presence I have been so lucky to enjoy.”

“Ginevra.”

He repeats it, letting it roll around on his tongue and he thinks her eyes linger on his lips for just a moment.  But she quickly snaps back from the soft moment, shoulders squared. “And if you ever call me anything but Ginny or Weasley, I’ll run you through.”

* * *

 

For making it to the final round, Weasley and Chang’s kingdoms are each awarded a small sum of treasures - about as minimal as it could be without the Dursley’s being deemed stingy rulers.

After congratulations and much overdone heraldry, they both disappear to outfit themselves in their best swordsman’s clothes and return with their blades glinting in the sunlight.

There’s a level of chivalric pomp and circumstance as they enter the field, dipping their heads in acknowledgement of a worthy opponent.  Tension runs through their shoulders, muscles tight. Weasley’s fingers flex on the pommel as they circle each other, wisps of her hair floating in the wind.

The sun beats down, high overhead and Harry feels the sweat trickling down his collar as Chang makes the first blow.  Weasley parries easily enough, following it with a balletic reposte.

Chang feints right and Weasley nearly seems to fall into the trap, but pulls back at the last moment, striking at Chang’s exposed left side.

Their footwork is quick; tight movements leading them in dance-like circuits of the field while their blades clash.  A few quick jabs back and forth leave Weasley with a deep dent to the armor protecting her upper arm and Chang without a shield.  The crowd is a mix of cheers and gasps as the battle continues.

Weasley thumps the flat of her sword against her shield and swists away from Chang’s quick jab forward.  Both knights are covered in dust, sweat licking through the grime in rivulets over their skin.

Despite her injury, Weasley seems in better spirits, her breathing quickly moving from labored to controlled while Chang’s fingers squeeze nervously over her pommel.  Harry grips his knees, while Dudley’s boots thud against the floorboards.

She seems a bit desperate, Chang does, as her retinue watch unflinchingly, even when she takes a rough blow from Weasley’s shield.  Given the way Chang’s arm droops uselessly at her side, Harry can only assume it’s been dislocated.

Still, she keeps her grasp on the gilded handle of her sword.  Harry sees her gaze flit to Weasley’s, the ever so slight narrowing of her eyes, just before she swipes out at the red haired knight.

Weasley is too quick, twisting sideways and letting her left foot slip between Changs.  Her ankle locks around Changs and upends the dark haired knight so she goes sprawling in the dirt with a rough thud.

A fall is far from a win, but Chang lost her grip on the sword, the steel blade flying far from her hand as Weasley looms overhead.  

The tip of her sword rests just above Chang’s jugular, patient as she considers her prostrate opponent.  “Yield?”

Chang’s jaw tightens.

Weasley’s boot finds the inside of Chang’s forearm, pressing down _just_ enough as she asks a bit louder.  “ _Yield_?”

Acquiescence comes with a growl wrenched from Chang’s throat and the crowd roars, only a few discontented yowls from those who hoped for bloodshed.

A few servants and Chang’s own squire help the knight from the field while Weasley raises her sword arm in victory, and so quick that he almost misses it, she sends Harry a wink.

* * *

 

Almost every memory Harry has - save a few foggy early ones - takes place within the lands owned by the crown.  And within each of those recollections, Harry cannot once place a time where he was invited into the great hall.  Not even outside of mealtimes.

Generally, when dishing out the cleaning and maintenance duties, the Dursley’s preferred to keep Harry far from prying eyes.  

Which is why he’s a fair bit dazzled upon entering the fully decorated hall, filled with revelers from the village and every surrounding kingdom who’d entered the tourney.

Roasts of every variety are centerpieces on each table, surrounded by countless side dishes - tureens of mashed potatoes, vegetables, freshly baked bread - they must _really_ be glad to be rid of Harry.

He’s at the head table, mainly to save face, and so far no one has slapped his hand away from the food.  Weasley moves to and fro in the crowd, and Harry can’t help but let his eyes follow as she laughs boisterously, accepting congratulations, and generally making everyone love her, want to be her, or at the worst kill her.  Though anyone with those feelings might question the idea after her display over the last two days.

The Dursleys seem busy enough, speaking with an older man who’d accompanied Weasley.  If the crimson and gold on his eyepatch hadn’t tipped Harry off, they had all stuck relatively close together.  There were enough competitors participating without any compunction for cheating on the field. And Harry wouldn’t bet against a single one of them taking a shot off the field either.

Regardless, he’d heard a few people refer to the man as Mad Eye and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

With one last look, Harry slips from the dais and into the pressing crowd of revelers, picking at heavily laden trays as he makes his way toward Weasley.  She’s dressed similarly to the previous night, though her gown is deep blue this time, velvet and rich against her sun kissed skin.

She turns just as Harry clears his throat, her long waves catching over her shoulder.  “Ah, have you come to congratulate me?”

Harry matches her grin.  “Of course. Though it seems I’m the last to do it.”

“Could be the best for last,” she muses, “Or utter laziness and a lack of social decorum.”

His brows twitch and she bites the corner of her lip.  “Have you come to a conclusion as yet?”

“I shall require additional information, sir.”

“Harry’ll do,” he says, face warming at her unfettered examination of him, “Just Harry.”

“Alright, Just Harry.  You’ve got to call me Ginny then since we’re clearly going to be friendly types now.”

His heart thuds happily and he’s so content, Harry nearly misses Piers making his way through the crowd on a collision course with them.  Without thinking, Harry grasps Weasley’s hand and begins pulling her toward the dancefloor. She eyes his hand quizzically. “I know we’re not the typical knight and lady, but I believe asking first is customary.”

He trips over nothing, like an _idiot_ , and nearly drags her down with him.  As his hands fall to catch himself, warmth rushes through his fingertips and he’s hovering mid air.  Ginny seems to retain her footing, grabbing him by the hand and tugging him toward her until their chests brush.  “Is this a play? To show off.”

Harry’s flush matches her own.  “Trust me, you didn’t want me to wait.  And almost wiping out is hardly a legitimate attempt at impressing you.”

Ginny smiles.  “You could have terrible judgment.”

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Harry answers, taking Ginny’s hand again and leading her through the press of the crowd.

They arrive on the floor just in time for the new set to begin and it’s only as the circuits start that Harry realizes he can barely remember the minimal dance instruction he’s had.  Mostly from Figg and her friends over bottles of cheap rum in the light of a crackling fire.

Ginny doesn’t note his fumblings beyond a slight smile that tickles the corners of her lips, but she quickly compensates for his difficulties by taking the lead.

When they enter the portion of the set that brings them closer, arms linked, Ginny murmurs, “Usually, men do not particularly enjoy when I lead.”

“Well they clearly did not recognize your prowess on the floor,” Harry responds easily as their arms wrap around each other, over their midsections, and they twist in a small circle of their own.

“You seem to enjoy being the leader in a situation well enough,” Ginny muses and blinks at him, waiting.

“Ah, yes.  Normally I would leave the decision to acquiesce up to my partner, but I took it for granted that most humans and other living beings would prefer to avoid Sir Piers at all costs.  Even if the alternative is dancing with me.”

She grimaces and quickly schools her face back into something that can be construed as proper.  “Well then I suppose, given the circumstances, I can understand your assumption and express my gratitude for your quick thinking.”

“Piers is ham fisted and _handsy_ ,” Harry elaborates, “Which I’m sure you could handle.  But I prefer to escape the Dursleys without a brawl, all things equal.”

Ginny hums, considering.  “Escape you say?”

The dance separates them again, giving Harry plenty of time to consider whether letting that little descriptor slip somehow endangered his aforementioned escape, but not to come to a conclusion before they reunite.

As she twirls under his arm and they begin executing a slightly complicated series of twists and turns, Ginny restates her question.  “What is there to escape from?”

“I - ” Harry notes Vernon’s beady eyes following him from across the room and swallows, “Just nice to have a change of scenery, wouldn’t you say?”

Ginny looks a little disappointed at his answer but doesn’t press and before he knows it, the dance set has wound to a close.

The rest of the evening, Harry makes it a point to stay faded into the background, a special ability he’s honed living in Privet his entire life, and watches Ginny from afar.

He sees her looking for something or someone a few times over the course of the night, and finds himself hopeful it’s him she’s searching for.  Though even if it _is_ , it may not be personal.  She _won_ him.  Of course she wants to protect her prize.

Late in the evening, when Harry’s shoulders ache from a too long day and his head is full of backhanded comments about his new life disguised as inane chatter, Harry decides he needs some air.  He’s currently charting his exit path when the red headed squire sidles up to him. “Evening.”

Harry dips his head.  “Hello.”

“We’re uh - I’m Ginny’s squire.  And brother.”

At Harry’s encouraging nod, Weasley’s brother continues, “I’m Ron.  We’re leaving early tomorrow. You looked like you might want an excuse.”

“We are going to get along quite well,” Harry laughs, “Try some of the fairy cakes.  I used to risk losing dinner for a week to get a bite of one.”

Aside from a tightening of his jaw, Ron doesn’t react to the information, either excitement about the prospect of sweets or indignance at his childhood of lack, and Harry kind of enjoys it honestly.  Pity would just make things worse and Ron seems to be a strange mix of intensive focus and lighthearted frivolity. Refreshing. Ron Weasley will be a refreshing addition to his life. And hopefully he won’t notice the way Harry’s eyes linger on one Ginny Weasley.

Before his flush can rise to fullness, Harry drags his thoughts back to reality and not fantasies about a certain fiery knight.  “I am all packed - I could just sleep in your camp for the night and be easily accessible in the morning.”

Ron quirks a brow, shuffling slightly as the crowd presses in from behind, increasingly inebriated as the night winds on but certainly not down.  “No goodbyes to be said? Not one last night in your bed?”

“It’s a bit musty,” Harry says with a shrug, “I’ve always preferred a nice night under the stars, if you’ve got a pallet to spare.”

* * *

 

Harry wakes with the sun, horses rustling around him as tents are collapsed and knights ready their companies to leave.  Including Weasley, who last night he’d learned represents the royal family of Gryffindor. The camp was welcoming enough last night, reasonably wary of him as a newcomer but honestly he felt more at ease here than living with his family for the last seventeen years.

He’s prepared for a long day of walking or perhaps on horseback, so he’s a bit confused when Ron appears and ushers him toward a lightly gilded carriage with velvety draperies pulled shut over the windows.  He doesn’t get explanation or introduction beyond a short “Good luck,” before he’s shoved inside.

“Oi!  Keep the noise down.  And the brightness too if you don’t mind.”

Harry startles, jolting back against the door hard enough he’s surprised he doesn’t collapse back out.  “I didn’t - Ron said I was supposed to sit in here.”

There’s a grunt in response and a sliver of light breaks through the curtains, slightly parted in his moment of distress.  “Ginevra - ”

“As if being overtired wasn’t bad enough, now you foist my parents’ terrible misjudgments on me before midday.”

Shrugging, Harry feels himself relax into his trademark biting humor.  “Most of those things are not my fault.”

“Do you know how to make a good impression?”

“Never seen the point,” Harry answers, easy, “The truth comes out eventually.”

That earns him a snort and Weasley props her feet on the empty seat next to him.  “I think we’ll get on just fine,” she opens one eye, “So long as you call me Ginny and don’t take offense when I pull my cloak overhead and sleep until a reasonable hour.”

“As you wish, Princess,” Harry laughs, not at all opposed to a few more hours of rest.

He sees her shoulders stiffen, or at least look like they do, but she simply hunkers down and they fall into silence as the caravan begins moving.  

With a glance Ginny’s way - she’s now fully blanketed by a thick cloak - Harry pulls the curtain open a few fingers’ width and gets his last glimpse of the kingdom of Privet.   _Good riddance_.

* * *

 

He doesn’t realize he’s drifted off until the carriage grinds to a halt and he nearly falls head first into Ginny’s lap.  She’s pulled one curtain open while he slept, her dark eyes following the scenery before they darted to him.

And then the oddest thing happens.  A flush rises on her cheeks, like he’d expect from a milkmaid on her first trip to market, a young girl making her debut at court, a gawky sort of prince meeting a beautiful knight on the castle grounds when no one knows.  Of course, thinking of that accidental meeting brings answering color to his own face and they’re both doing everything possible to avoid eye contact.

It feels as if they’ve both sprouted extra limbs or perhaps woken in a brand new body when they clamber from the carriage like a couple of new spring fawns rather than a world renowned knight and a mediocre to good huntsman.  While the grooms care for the horses and a few servants work up a passable meal, Harry and Ginny wander toward the stream bubbling just at the other side of the clearing.

Harry nearly moans as the icy water runs down his neck, cooling his heated, dusty skin.  He runs his damp hands through his wild hair as Ginny swallows a few handfuls of water and seems to steel herself for something, though he can’t be sure what, until she breaks the silence.

“I am.  I am sorry about before.”

Swiping the stray water from his chin, Harry drops back onto his bum, brow furrowed.  “Before?”

“It wasn’t fitting of my rank to be so - ”

“Drunk?” Harry supplies, suppressing a grin.

“Don’t be a little arsehole.”

“See that’s not very chivalrous either,” Harry teases, “What do they teach you knights these days?”

“Enough, as you’ve seen,” she scoffs, haughty even as her eyes twinkle mischief, “I’ll happily demonstrate - ”

Abruptly, Ginny rises to her feet, all the grace and power he’s come to expect from her over the last days running through her from head to toe.  “Stay behind me.”

Harry stands, brushing away leaves and other remnants of the forest clinging to his trousers and pads softly behind her as his ears strain for whatever Ginny’s heard.  And then it hits him, all at once. There’s nothing _to_ hear.

As they nearly enter the clearing, Ginny throws up one hand before arming herself with both daggers tucked away in her boots.  It would be comforting if she had that gorgeous blade she’d used to win the tourney but he’s seen enough to trust Ginny Weasley with any weapon.

She peers around the tree where they’ve taken up refuge and then pulls back, whisper low and fast, “Our camp’s been knocked out, can’t be sure about deaths.  Five armed with traditionally short range weaponry, but so am I. Can you handle a blade?”

“I’m better with a bow.”

Ginny’s face flits between intrigue and frustration, settling on a sort of battle calm that spreads over her form.  Her entire body is a weapon. “Stay close?”

Harry nods, fully intending to do so, until she’s just taken out the second invader with a silent slip of her blade and Harry’s eyes catch on a crossbow nestled among one of the knight’s belongings.  

He’s quick, quiet, and will be an asset rather than a liability if he’s armed, so Harry pads across the short distance to the not yet lit fire and feels instantly calmed when his fingers wrap around the smooth wood.

Until a blade caresses his jugular, silvery and cold as his assailant whispers, low and gruff.  “You’ll just come right with me, you will.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“‘Cause I’ve got a knife to your throat, boy.”  
Looking for Ginny, Harry resolves to keep this little chatter going as long as possible until he’s rescued or manages to stumble on some idea to save himself.  He’s not even free for a full day and already about to die. Hell, he slept away most of his liberty.

“Well, I think it’s all for show.  That knife. Do you even know how to use it?”

That was the wrong thing to say, if the way the sharp metal bites into his skin is any indication.  “I know well enough.”

“But you can’t use it how you’d like to on a little prat like me, eh?”

A harrumph and they’re now stumbling past the carriages and toward the dark bit of the forest, trees and underbrush so dense Harry’s not sure how well he could navigate out.  

“You’re under orders, kidnapping me for someone?”

The dagger digs deeper, then drops away suddenly and Harry immediately whirls, crossbow at the ready, until he finds himself face to face with Ginny.  “Bloody - it’s nice to see you.”

“You shouldn’t have _stopped_ seeing me.  I seem to distinctly recall saying _don’t_ leave my side.”

“I was a liability.”

“This way you could be a full on damsel in distress,” Ginny grumbles, grabbing his arm and stepping over the crumpled form of his assailant with easy strides, “That’s much less troublesome.”

“I - ” Harry cuts off his own defense, arms rising into place without a thought as he lets his arrow fly just before the bandit could do the same.

Ginny presses the bow down and gestures toward his victim - definitely his first human kill - and lets her fingers grasp his trembling ones, her eyes soft.  “That would be the last of them, then.”

“He - he was about to fire on you.”

The weight of the bow leaves his hands and Harry feels a cold sweat break on his forehead as Ginny leads him toward an overturned log, taking a seat and tugging him down alongside her.  “If you hadn’t, I would have.”

“But he - ”

“Feel sorry - always feel sorry when a human life ends,” Ginny smiles without joy, “But don’t let it eat at you, not when it’s like this.  They made their choice and they’re far from innocent.”

“Vernon’s taxed them to the hilt - ”

“I wish this was about Vernon, Harry,” Ginny sighs, patting his knee and rising, “Now lets wake these lazybones and get you to safety, eh?”

“Wake?”

“Just hold your questions for Dumbledore.”

Harry tries, quite hard in fact, not to gape as Ginny moves through the collapsed ranks of her comrades and sets everyone to rights.  He must though, since it doesn’t take long for Ginny to shoo Harry off to check the horses before resuming her melodic murmurs that bring their caravan back to life, one by one.

It’s been a long, odd few days and Harry finds he’s comforted somewhat by the easy care of the large beautiful animals.  They’re a little skittish, but it seems they remained somewhat unscathed by the invaders. Which is odd, since the average attacker would want to spook the horses to avoid an unwanted pursuit.

Once everything’s set to rights and Harry and Ginny are tucked back inside the slightly worse for the wear carriage, Harry says as much.  The curtains are pulled tight again, though Ginny’s on edge like she hadn’t been before, her sword easily at hand and if a human can perk their ears, she’s doing it.

Still, she manages to comprehend and respond.  “They weren’t the brightest bunch of invaders, were they?”

“The attack _was_ a failure.”

Ginny bites her lip.  “Hopefully.”

“They didn’t kill anyone, or kidnap me,” Harry says, “What else?”

Blowing out a breath, Ginny lets her shoulders relax, just a bit, and blinks at Harry.  “There are a lot of things - things you don’t know,” and when Harry starts to ask just what he doesn’t know, she continues, “That we _will_ tell you.  Just. Not quite yet.”

“Please do not tell me to wait for Dumbledore.”

“Patience, _Prince Harry_ ,” Ginny drawls, winking at him playfully, “Rest, I’ll protect you.”

* * *

 

He does manage to keep up conversation, and despite Ginny’s protestations that he really _should_ get some rest she seems to enjoy herself.  It’s something, laughing with a person. Harry wracks his brain and can barely recall doing so for such an extended period of time.  

Figg was probably the best friend he could’ve asked for, but they weren’t really much for easy laughter.  She was more maternal in that sense, or at least the way Harry would’ve imagined it. It’s not as though Petunia made any overtures.  In fact, it was more the exact opposite of overtures if that’s something that exists.

Regardless, Harry does drift off and only wakes when the carriage jostles to a stop.  Ginny sends a smirk his way. “We have arrived.”

Harry rolls his shoulders and sits up straighter while Ginny sticks her head out the window, barking a few instructions before they trundle through the now open gates.  She glances at Harry. “I keep my temper most of the time.”

“Patient?”

“Tactical,” Ginny says with a wink.

Before the little promenade begins, two beautiful dark horses are brought to their little parade, saddled and festooned in Ginny’s colors.  Presumably the colors of the kingdom. Ginny gracefully dismounts the carriage and makes her way toward their waiting mounts.

She heads for one specifically and greets it familiarly.  Harry’s not really aware he’s staring until Ginny’s murmurs cease and she glances back over her shoulder.  “You can ride, yes?”

“I’m not a hopeless damsel.”

“But you admit you _are_ a damsel,” Ginny teases, swinging her leg up and over in one smooth movement.  

Harry slips from the carriage, the sun sharp in his eyes and preventing him from really examining his surroundings.  He blinks away the spots and makes his way toward his _noble steed_.  Living in the stables for so long and basically roaming free on the grounds, Harry’s no slouch on a horse but he’s far from the elegant movements of Knight Weasley.

Once he’s seated, Ginny tilts her head.  “You’re not just a pretty face.”

Fighting a blush, Harry grins, “As long as you do think it’s pretty.”

“Dashing,” she corrects, determinedly studying her reins, color rising on her cheeks.  Letting out a shrill whistle, Ginny sets the procession going, and Harry clicks his tongue, setting his mount trotting just behind Ginny’s.

At first, as he sees the gathered crowds cheering, he feels as if he’s merely living spoils of war brought home to fill the kingdom’s coffers.  But Ginny twists and jerks her head, calling him forward and somehow when he’s riding next to her it feels like the victory is his too.

Flower wreaths litter the cobblestones in front of them and petals fall like raindrops in the air, catching in Ginny’s fiery locks.

She’s a vision, the epitome of the best of chivalric fantasy, and Harry can’t help but be swept up in it.  

Over the years, Harry’s had a lot of opportunity to see nobles and knights alike and Ginny is like no one he’s ever seen.  And not because she’s a _lady_ rather than a lord.  She has that cocky, in control air about her that would be expected but beyond that she seems _kind_.  The people don’t just cheer for her out of respect for her rank, it’s as if they each know her personally and the respect originates from that knowledge.

They do gawk, when their gazes shift from her to him, and the feeling isn’t all that welcome.  He’s been subjected to a lot over the years, but the Dursleys weren’t much for pushing Harry in the eyes of the public.  And this goes beyond a large crowd in the throne room. It feels as if the entire kingdom has filtered into the side roads and shops that line the high street leading toward the main square.

The clock tower rises high above the rest of the city, a model of celestial bodies wrapping around the highest peak in swirling ringlets.

As the new hour tolls, sparks fly from the crowd lighting the air like stars streaking across the sky.  Harry’s heart thrums and it’s as if he can _feel_ the blood pumping through his veins.  Ginny twists and glances at him like she somehow anticipated something would begin in him at this moment.  

His mouth falls open dumbly and Ginny sends him a soft smile before mouthing, _Later_.

He shouldn’t, not logically at least, feel he can trust Ginny Weasley yet.  So far, she’s won him in ritualized combat, protected him from as yet unidentified invaders, and continuously refused to tell him _anything_.  But her eyes are clear when she holds his gaze, no tremor in her expression when she assures him all will be put right and explained.  

Which is fairly meaningless, considering his options are either trust the mysterious knight with seemingly magical abilities or try his luck in the wilderness unarmed, but comforting nonetheless.

Finally, after a circuitous tour of the city, they arrive at the gates surrounding the castle and as Harry tips his head back and his mouth goes dry.  He feels like the typical country villager in awe of the might and finery of the King’s palace. But it’s not all gilded, overdone decorations and stiff backed soldiers.

The castle itself is a expansive, sturdy thing, with rough hewn stones stacked one atop another in expert pattern, broad windows of stained glass sparkle in the sunlight telling stories Harry’s never heard.

Gravel crunches beneath the wagons, their horses’ hooves, while elegant trees stretch their limbs toward the sky, the last vestiges of their springtime blooms hanging on as if to greet them.

Ron rides forward, his own mount a tawny brown with fierce dark eyes and white around it’s hooves.  He exchanges a word with the men guarding the final gate and after, they gesture sharply before the drawbridge opens, allowing entrance to the courtyard.

Grooms and other servants are waiting expectantly on the cobblestones, grasping reins with practiced hands and greeting the new arrivals with friendly welcome.

Everything begins to sink in now, though Harry had thought his realization about the changed state of affairs in his life had truly become real long before, and he moves like a spectre, gently pushed and prodded on his way.

Once he breaks the plane of the entryway, Harry realizes his own travel-dirty clothes, covered in grime and very likely to stain and mar anything he touches.

Plush, intricately woven carpets bring warmth to the stone hall, tapestries telling tales of gallantry and magic and the history of the kingdom are hung proudly on the walls not split by windows.  The late afternoon sun still slips in, warm rays lying across the ground like golden icicles fallen into fresh snow.

At some juncture, he lost track of Ginny but before he has long to worry, Ron’s at his elbow and tugging him toward the marble staircase that winds up the far side of the hall, its end out of sight.  “My guess is you’d like a nice hot bath, yeah?”

“Is that an option?”

“You do reek, if it’s not too bold to say,” Ron says, fighting a grin and looking every bit Ginny’s brother, “The King and Queen will be grateful for your tardiness, under the circumstances.”

“So where - you don’t have to take me, I’m sure you’re tired of my face.”

Ron shrugs.  “Your rooms are next to mine, so it’s no trouble.”

It is a step up, being housed with the squires, rather than a barely reformed prison cell, and from what Harry’s seen servants in Gryffindor are happy and well provided for.  Living as one won’t be a trial at all. Hopefully, they’re easy with freedom, once duties are attended to. Already, his body thrums with a need for the wild.

As they walk, Ron gives Harry an overview of the rooms and corridors they pass, library after library, training rooms, classrooms for the royal family, guest rooms.  In Harry’s experience, servants aren’t typically housed so close to the family, usually shunted down as close to the dungeons as possible without _actually_ forcing them to share space with the rats and vermin that sneak in through the grates.

Finally, Ron leads Harry down a luxurious corridor, with stately wooden furniture pressed against the walls and rich wine colored rugs running down the hall and toward one of the glittering stained glass windows Harry had seen from the courtyard.  Ron gestures toward the doors, naming their inhabitants. “This was Charlie’s, but he’s gone to - well I’ll leave that for later. We still keep his room for his returns. However infrequent.”

The door is pulled shut, so Harry can’t really see what kind of room is kept for whoever Charlie is - at some point he’ll have to gird himself and actually ask a question or two.

“And this is you,” Ron says with a grin, hand already twisting a burnished gold handle and sliding the shined wooden door open.

It becomes clear Ron wants Harry to enter first, so he does, with careful, hesitant steps.  The room is large - perhaps even larger than Dudley’s suite - with an expansive window that looks out over a dark lake to the west.  Matched furniture of a deep, rich mahogany fills the room, a wardrobe with inlaid stones depicting some ancient forest sparkles in the far corner while a large curtained bed dominates the room.  A desk, half filled bookshelves, and a long table with fresh flowers complete the room nicely.

Still, he can’t quite see where he fits in all of this and says as much to Ron.

Color rises on Ron’s cheeks as he answers, “I know the Dursleys probably go for flash and gold everywhere they can manage to put it, but we prefer _feeding_ our people.”

“We - you.  No. I mean, where do I sleep?  Who’ll live here?”

Ron narrows his eyes in confusion, mulling over the question, Harry feeling more and more uncomfortable by the second, until Ron’s brows rise in understanding.  “You. The rumors were true then.”

Harry’s heart pounds.  They _didn’t_ know about the magic and now he’s somehow outed himself.  “Which rumors?”

“ _You_ live here.  This is your room.  We filled the shelves with things we thought you might like, but feel free to take whatever you like from the libraries,” Ron explains, almost angry as he continues, though the words are welcoming enough, “Your washroom is just through that doorway and if you need assistance, just tug the rope and it’ll summon someone.”

Harry blinks.  “I - could I take a bath?”

Ron’s blue eyes soften.  “It’s already prepared. Just there.”

After making sure Harry’s found the clothes already laid up for him and explaining the various bottles and tinctures housed in the washroom, Ron leaves him to his ablutions.  It’s the first time he’s been truly alone since the second morning of the tourney. As he strips down, it feels as though he’s pulling a layer of skin from his body and if he never sees these clothes again it will be entirely too soon.  Maybe they can retire them in a funeral pyre.

Just as Ron promised, the copper tub centered in the washroom is filled almost to brimming with steaming water.  There are even flower petals floating in the water.

Once he’s stripped, Harry sinks into the water and lets the tendrils of lavender teasing at his nostrils relax every muscle in his body.  He does his best to stay aware of the fact that his new...hosts may be waiting for him already, but consoles himself that he’ll likely make a better impression _not_ covered in whatever he has managed to pick up on the the journey.

He reaches for the bottles of tinctures and salves and whatnot, fingers brushing the colored glass just barely.  He finally makes legitimate contact and knocks one over, sending three more rolling toward the end of the shelf.

In the moments it takes for them to fall, Harry barely mutters _shite_ before they’re suspended like stringless wind chimes clinking together though the air is still.  Glancing around, though he knows he’s alone, Harry takes a deep breath and _thinks_ about it.  Thinks about the bottles settling in his hand, about the rough stoppers brushing his palm, the slip and slide of the colored liquids inside.

And then they’re in his hand, before he can blink.  

Figg told him magic was all about intent.  That strength of _mind_ was what made magic strong or weak.  He’d read enough theory, to be sure, and like a fantasy pored over all the wonderful things magic could do.  Save lives, give flight, change one object into another - the possibilities were endless so it seemed.

And now, here, he might be able to turn all that head knowledge into something tangible.  The possibilities would turn to reality.

He’d have to be cautious, certainly, Harry thought as he massaged oils into his shoulders, nearly groaning as the muscles relaxed.  There had been a measure of comfort in knowing the Dursleys detested magic too much to weaponize it. Here - well Gryffindor is an unknown quantity.  It certainly _seemed_ Ginny used some sort of magic to wake their traveling companions, but potions and certain talisman centered spells do not require actual intrinsic magic ability.  Preparation requires it, certainly, but use is as simple as spilling contents or recalling an incantation.

If they were open enough to use magic as Ginny did, they would certainly be ready to use Harry, should the need arise.  Tensions in the region and the kingdom of Morsmordre’s ever increasing desire to expand into their neighbors’ lands. Removing himself from the situation, Harry’s not completely unable to sympathize, but he really would rather not be an implement used to destroy enemies.

The water has finally begun to cool and Harry’s fingers are pruning, so he ends his bath - hopefully there will be future opportunities - and rises from the water.

Dripping, he glances around for something to dry himself with.  It would have been better to do all this inspection beforehand, but he was tired and it’s been a long few days. There must be something to use to dry himself tucked in the cabinets in the main bedroom, but should that fail, there were more than a few blankets strewn about.

He’s just settled on using what is possibly the softest quilt he’s ever experienced when a couple short knocks sound and then suddenly Harry’s naked and Ginny Weasley is staring at him.

To her credit, her expression hardly slips.  Ginny’s gaze simply darts down, briefly assessing, and then back to his face without even a twitch of her lip.

Harry gulps.  “Uh, hello. Again.”

She does smirk now.  “Hello again to _some_ of you.  A few things are brand new acquaintances.”

“All glad to meet you, I’m sure,” Harry drawls.

Ginny hums and flicks her brows up, a rush of pleasurable heat building in Harry’s chest.  “Ah, well it would seem ‘glad’ may be an understatement.”

Footsteps sound in the hall before Harry can respond and Ginny steps back, offering a short explanation for her arrival, “We’re wanted in the throne room, best make haste.”

Harry nods and tightens his grip on the blanket.  “Soon as I can. Where - ”

“I will be just outside, when you’re,” Ginny clears her throat and for the first time shows a hint of bashfulness, “Ready.”

Once the door falls shut with a quiet thud, Harry speeds up his combined exploration and dressing process.  Quickly, he tugs on trousers and a rich emerald tunic, softer than he’s ever felt, and a pair of low brown boots.  For a moment, he worries perhaps he’s not dressed appropriately to meet his new _royal_ hosts.  But they supplied the garments and further tardiness would likely be more of an affront than average clothing.  

Ginny’s lounged back against the stone wall opposite his chambers when he emerges, all ease and familiarity as she examines his choice of dress.  “Will I do?”

“I s’pose,” she answers easily, gesturing for him to follow her toward the stairwell he and Ron hadn’t used earlier, “I wondered if that was just your hair after a long day’s travel.  But it seems that...windstorm is intentional.”

Harry pats at the crown of his head uselessly.  Really, it’s more to see the state of things rather than any sort of misguided attempt at remedying the wild mess of his hair.  He’d learned long ago - as had Petunia - that his hair was an untamable riot. “Tis my royal identifier. ‘Hair wild as a windstorm and dark as pitch.  Eyes green as - ‘”

She laughs and finishes, “Fresh-pickled toad.”

Grinning, Harry elbows her.  “Ah, yes. A lovely picture, that.”

Ginny takes the stairs first, which Harry is grateful for since he can barely recall most Ron’s rushed tour of the castle.  Though the secret passage to the kitchens managed to stick out in his mind.

By the time Ginny’s asked him if his rooms are to his satisfaction - they both studiously avoid any re-opening of the nudity episode - and Harry’s asked about the weather, brilliant that, they’ve arrived at their destination.  Ginny gives him a once over, brushes a bit of lint from his shoulder, and then nods at the guards Harry’d not noticed before.

Then, doors at least three times Harry’s height swing open and they’re admitted into a long, well lit room.  At the far end, twin thrones sit atop a slightly raised platform.

The whole room is filled with natural light, even though the sun’s on the way to setting.  Tall windows reach towering heights nearly brushing the ceiling where clouds seem to drift across a pink sky.

A plush wine-red carpet runs straight from the doors to the thrones and Harry examines the people lining the left and right, almost all red heads with Ron among them, and finally a king and queen seated and looking utterly.  Normal. Their garments are certainly of fine stuff, golden crowns rest on their brows.

The king is tall and wiry, red hair thinning atop his pale head, while the queen has similarly shaded locks and a shorter, compact shape.  The more Harry sees of the royal family and their court, the more he feels like a complete dolt for not putting everything together much, much sooner.  Though the information has been provided at a slow trickle.

He barely has time to exchange a glance with Ron before the queen beckons them forward.  “Ginevra, come here. Let’s have a look at you.”

Ginny flushes but does as she’s told, her long braid tight, the shade darkened with dampness.  Forcibly, Harry keeps the thought of _Ginny_ in the bath from his mind.

She exchanges short greetings with the king and queen - who Harry is nearly certain are her parents - before returning to her place beside Harry.  

With a slight incline of her head, Ginny gestures to Harry.  “May I present, His Royal Highness, Prince Harry of Privet.”

Harry can’t help the laugh turned cough that bubbles up at the thought of the Dursleys hearing him referred to as His Royal Highness, let alone as ‘of Privet.’ Ginny glances at him but continues.  “He, along with a cache of a prize and a writ guaranteeing free trade with and through Privet have been awarded to the kingdom of Gryffindor after our victory at the tourney.”

It doesn’t seem wishful thinking or imagination that Ginny looks decidedly uncomfortable at the idea of a human being grouped in with gold, jewels, and whatever other material goods the Dursleys provided.

She turns to Harry with a soft smile, oddly comforting and speaking quietly just for him.  “Harry, these are my parents, King Arthur and Queen Molly of Gryffindor,” she looks a little bashful for a moment, “Sorry I - anyway, they would like to meet you.”

King Arthur rises and offers his hand to Queen Molly and the two rulers make their way down the dais steps.  Their faces seem kind, an openness Harry hasn’t witnessed in royalty before now. He’s still reeling a bit with the revelation that Ginny’s a _princess_.  He’d entertained the idea, certainly.  It’s not all that strange for royals to train, but generally princesses are kept from the fields, with female knights taken from the lower aristocracy.

Harry doesn’t have much time to contemplate the news before the king and queen reach him and Queen Molly smiles, much like her son Ron.  “We are so happy to have you here.”

King Arthur agrees, “Welcome, welcome.”

“You can do whatever you like - move about the kingdom so long as you take proper protection like the boys and Ginny do,” the queen continues, “Your only set scheduling will be magical training with Maester Dumbledore and Mistress McGonagall.”

Harry’s jaw drops, unused to hearing his magic talked of with such certainty and none of the disdain.  “You - I - magic?”

“You’ll need to learn to use it properly if you’re to live here,” one of Ginny’s brothers puts in, shorter and a bit _poncey_ if he’s honest.

Ron shoots the brother a glare and Harry clenches his fists.  “I - I appreciate your generosity and my lack of bargaining power in the situation.  But I cannot allow my gift, curse, whatever you might call it, to be used as a weapon.  I won’t be a weapon.”

The king and queen look as though they are trying to formulate a response and Ginny simply appears to be contemplating the quickest way to dispatch her brother, when the two twins step forward and exchange a glance before raising their fingers and murmuring a complicated string of words foreign to Harry’s tongue.  Before he knows it, storm clouds have formed overhead, not painted but genuine clouds all pouring rain directly onto poncey Weasley.

Queen Molly immediately begins clucking at her boys, shuffling them off as if they’re a typical family rather than rulers that hold the fate of an entire kingdom in their hands.  

Ginny’s fingers grasp at Harry’s sleeve, drawing his attention away from the family disagreement.  “I meant to tell you but. It’s tiring, being two people at once. And you - people underestimate me or behave differently.  I wanted to - it was selfish. I’m sorry. You deserved warning.”

“And Ron?”

“He probably thought you’d run,” Ginny answers, “After one mad royal family why wouldn’t you expect another?”

Ginny leads him toward one of the towering windows with a view of the swaying green grasses that surround the castle, giving way to rolling hills and a sparkling sea beyond.  “You’re not cursed.”

Harry laughs darkly.  “It feel like I am, some days.”

“We don’t want to use you,” Ginny begins, then pauses, “I think the point of Fred and George’s little display was to show you.”

“Pranksters, eh?”

She laughs, “You have no idea.  But, promise not to take this as an insult?”

Harry quirks a brow, tearing his eyes away from the landscape.  

“You’re woefully behind.”

“Fairly hard not to take a statement that involved the word ‘woeful’ as an insult,” Harry says, but a laugh bubbles from his throat.

“We’ve all got magic here, it’s just normal.  You’re you. That’s all there is to it,” Ginny shrugs, “We heard the rumors and looked into things, had a few trusted spies keep watch and then I knew we had to rescue you.”

“You did, eh?” Harry asks, soft.  They’ve moved closer to each other somehow, fingers barely a hairsbreadth apart on the windowsill.  

“I take the chivalric code very seriously.”

Harry smiles.  “My knight in shining armor.”

“Don’t be a little arse.”

* * *

 

Dinner that night is a family affair, or at least how Harry’s always imagined them.  He finds himself barely eating, letting the warm smiles and boisterous laughter fill his chest with happiness he’s really never felt.  Even on his best day with Figg - a gift of a human being, really - the joy always felt borrowed or at least on a time limit. Here, after a few hours in Gryffindor, there’s a bloom of hope growing inside him.

Somehow, Ron, Ginny, and the others manage to draw him in and he’s probably never laughed this hard in his life.  It’s nothing serious, the twins’ latest experiments - mostly failures - Charlie’s latest letter about his work with _baby dragons_ , Percy trying and failing to bring any semblance of decorum back to the table.

By the time they trickle out of the hall and into their respective bedrooms, Harry finds himself drifting off, utterly and completely tired from a beautiful overflow of happiness.

The sun wakes him early the next morning, bedding crisp and clean beneath him without a trace of mustiness.  Rolling from the bed, Harry twists the soreness from his muscles and pads toward the washroom. Water - chilly and refreshing - waits in the basin and he rinses the remaining sleep from his eyes.  

Breakfast is a less formal affair, if the previous night could be classified as such, but no less full.  It seems that varying morning routines are made easier by a long standing buffet of sorts. Servants and other members of the household mix with the family, filling their plates and slowly preparing to face the day.

Harry sits off in the corner, his stomach seemingly bottomless as he devours his overful plate and swipes the last of his hotcake across the remaining bits that litter his dish.  Before he finishes, Ginny wanders over, having finished a conversation with a wide eyed blonde who seemed more intent on her half-dance through the room than the meal itself.

“Sleep well?”

Harry hums.  “Better than I can recall.”

Ginny takes a crunching bite of a deliciously crisp green apple and glances at Harry.  “So you’re rested?”

“Sure,” Harry agrees, though not without a healthy dash of wariness.

She takes another bite.  “We’re training today.”

“I thought Maester - ”

“ _Swordsmanship_.”

* * *

 

The training fields are still sparsely filled, the hour still fairly early, so Harry and Ginny have their pick of the sparring rings.  Tipping his head back, Harry takes a breath, deep enough to fill his lungs with the scent of fresh grass, autumn leaves, and something faintly flowery.

He’s pulled from his revery by the change, and something heavy tapping deliberately against his forearm.  

“Daydreaming like that on the battlefield will get you killed,” Ginny says, wry.

“Lucky we’re not on the battlefield.  And that I have no plans to be.”

Ginny offers him the handle of one of two practice swords.  “Who would’ve guessed Vernon Dursley could raise a pacifist?”

Testing the weight in his hand, Harry takes a few experimental swings and laughs dryly.  “Vernon Dursley raising me - that’s a funny thought.”

Settling the pommel of her own sword into its resting place, Ginny gestures for Harry to follow suit.  As he does, she slowly circles him in the ring. “You’re fit enough.”

Almost immediately, Ginny flushes and Harry suppresses his chuckle.  “Thanks.”

“Don’t be a prat,” Ginny shoots back with a roll of her eyes, “I mean you seem muscled enough to handle a weapon and some light training.”

For some reason, he wants to keep the extent of his ability to ‘handle a weapon’ under wraps for the time being.  He tells himself it’s tactical, and maybe it is. But who’s to say if the aim is political or romantic?

Almost without input from his conscious brain, Harry daydreams about finally revealing his prowess with a bow and Ginny’s utter and complete _awe_ at his abilities and the _only_ way she can express said awe is in a non-verbal lip-to-lip fashion.  

It would be utter heaven.  Not that Harry has any legitimate knowledge of that type of heaven but imaginations can do wonderful things.  Hopefully the real thing is better.

Apparently, he’s let his mind wander too long and Ginny’s decided to make this a teachable moment, because one second he’s bleary eyed and contemplating the effects of a gorgeous pair of lips on a man’s sanity and the next, he’s flat on his back in the dirt, dust settling on his tunic.

“A soft mind is a dangerous thing, my Prince.”

Accepting the proffered hand, Harry gets to his feet, letting his sword clash with hers, casual.

Ginny answers with a flick of her own wrist and before he knows it, they’re parrying and thrusting in a dangerous dance.  He knows, having watched her compete against trained knights, that Ginny is going easy on him, whatever she might bluster.  He, meanwhile can feel the sweat striking rivulets down his back, feel the tension building in his shoulders with exertion.

As such, he gets her on the run to an extent and her heel almost crosses out of the circle.  But it’s as if that nearness triggers something inside her, beyond training - it’s a fire in her eyes that tells him Ginny Weasley, Princess of Gryffindor and decorated knight is not a woman to be trifled with.  And certainly not one well acquainted with losing.

A streak which doesn’t end here as she once again sends Harry sprawling, this time with a dull blade at his throat.  “And you’re dead.”

“I _feel_ dead,” Harry groans, trying and failing to rise on his palms.  His shoulders drop but a soft gust of air stops him before his head connects with the earth.

That earns him a laugh, even as Ginny wanders out of his field of vision.  “Nice trick.”

Squeaking wheels beckon her return and then she’s ordering him to his feet.  “You’ve seen what the goal is - ”

“Being better than you?”

Ginny smirks.  “Impossible. Your goal is to stay on your feet and not die.”

“So now I beat that sad sack shaped like a human?”

“Until I say stop.”

* * *

 

It becomes routine after that, breakfast, train with Ginny until his arms feel like gruel, wander the castle like a curious little mouse, soak in the bath until he feels semi human, sleep, and repeat.

Gradually, Ginny’s turning him into some semblance of a knight.  Certainly far from her caliber, but he’d wager few could boast such a status.

However hard he’s working, Ginny’s training him _and_ overseeing the rest of the Gryffindor knights, plus keeping up her own training.  One morning, he wakes early in need of the chamber pot still half asleep. As he wanders back toward his bed, the sun still low on the horizon and on a whim, he steps onto the small balcony, feet going icy against the chilled flagstones as he nears the edge.  

It’s then that he spots her, fierce and beautiful.  Her hair a brilliant pennant against the dark sky as she runs with the grace of a nymph and power of a thunderstorm.  For a handful of moments, he indulges and watches as she streaks across the grounds, only retreating when she’s out of view.

And when he returns to bed and finally drifts off again, it’s dreams of Ginny that carry him to sleep.

Waking for the second time, much later based on the sun’s position high above and warm as it slices across his room, Harry rises and dresses quickly.  Ginny’s sure to put him through hell for being so late.

In the kitchen, he grabs an apple, quickly crunching his way through it while he jogs to the training grounds.  

When he does arrive, Ginny’s not in any of their usual spots and he begins to think she’d given him up as a lost cause for the day when one of the squires - Colin, he’s fairly sure - runs toward him, breathless.  “I’ve been looking - Knight, er, Princess Ginny? I’m never quite certain which to use. She has requested you join her at the range as soon as you can.”

After some quick directions from Colin, Harry heads toward the range, hoping this is simply a change in their routine rather than Ginny finally deciding to put an arrow between his eyes and end her misery.

She doesn’t notice his arrival, at first, and he can’t quite blame her given the focus required for her current occupation.  He watches her chest expand with a deep intake of breath before she lets the arrow fly, swift and sure toward the target. Without hesitation she knocks another arrow into position and releases it, following with a third in quick succession.

She’s used up her projectiles for the moment, so Harry allows himself to applaud her prowess, startling her just barely.  “Welcome to the land of the living, Harry.”

“Sorry - I didn’t sleep well,” Harry answers, contrite.

“Perhaps we should delay today’s lesson then, in the name of avoiding putting your eye out,” Ginny offers, smirking.

Harry flicks his brows up, fighting the urge to smirk.  He’s hoping to keep this as satisfying as possible. “I think I’ll be alright.”

A challenging grin quirks Ginny’s lips and she offers Harry the bow.

He lifts the bow and waits for Ginny to nudge his posture into place.  Once she’s satisfied - he receives a nod of approval - Harry drops the bow and holds his hand out for an arrow.  

Satisfied he has the necessary supplies, Ginny takes a few steps back and Harry raises the bow.  With the slim wood in his hands, the spring of the string, Harry’s transported back to Figg’s woods.  After a moment, he takes a deep breath and on the exhale, lets go.

The arrow flies, spearing through the centermost of Ginny’s arrows, a loud splintering crack in the autumn air.  She barks out a laugh and looks at Harry with something like respect. “Why do I have a feeling that wasn’t beginner’s luck?”

“Dunno, but it’s an accurate one.”

“Your form could still use some work - seems you’re mostly trained for stationary shots.”

Harry laughs.  “See, that just feels like a sore loser talking.”

Grabbing a second bow, Ginny notches another arrow and lets it fly even as she moves toward him, her accuracy no less deadly.  “A knight is never a poor loser.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Harry teases, sending another arrow shooting toward the target as he mirrors her movements.

Ginny does the same until they’re chest to chest, arms dropped to the side, bows dangling loosely from their hands.  “I’ll admit, you’ve been taught well.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Princess Ginevra,” Harry murmurs, surprising even himself with the slightly rakish quality to his smile.

Brushing the flyaways from her face absently, Ginny tightens her jaw.  “Don’t call me that.”

“What, Princess?  Or _Ginevra_?”

“Either.”

* * *

 

Time passes quickly, in a way Harry’s never really known.  Not the blur of relative imprisonment, nor the tired haze of malnourishment, not even the overtired forgetfulness of days spent hunting from dawn to dusk.  

His training expands from physical to magic, Maester Dumbledore remaining a looming and vaguely mysterious presence while McGonagall spearheads his work.  Ron is kind enough to help Harry in his studies, providing helpful insights and more often than not, much needed levity.

Regardless of whatever demands are put on his time, Harry’s lighter than he’s ever been.  Which is why he should have expected it to all come crashing down at any moment.

It starts in late November, the first real snow has hit and the kingdom is a canvas of winter white.  He, Ginny, and Ron are enjoying the brisk weather, wind chapping their cheeks red and laughter sharp in the cold, when Colin comes running through the drifts.  Or the closest he can get to running given the circumstances. “You’re wanted - Princess Ginny and Prince Harry. Prince Ron, you’re uh - ”

Harry shoves Ron’s shoulder.  “What lovely Colin is trying to say is no one wants you.”

“Stuff it, prat,” Ron fires back without heat.  He still joins them as they begin the trek back to the castle.  “This sounds a bit ominous, I’ll come along.”

“Don’t buy it, Ron’s a notorious busybody,” Ginny stage whispers to Harry.

Their laughter carries the trio into the throne room, Colin leading the way somewhat nervously.  They leave a trail of melting snow behind them and Harry tenses for a moment, recalling Vernon’s preferred punishments for such an infraction.  The scars at his wrists a permanent reminder.

Measures he’s certain the Queen won’t take even with the current state of her entry hall, Harry’s not seen anyone clapped in irons since he arrived nearly three months earlier.  The throne room is empty when they arrive, save the royal librarian, Hermione - Harry grins when Ron flushes as he does whenever she appears - who takes over as guide. She leads them toward a small ante chamber Harry’s only glimpsed in passing.

A large stone table dominates the room.  It’s round, so no one really takes a head seat, but if Harry had to choose, it seems Maester Dumbledore is acting leader in the current situation.

King Arthur hasn’t ceded authority necessarily - just deferred, or so it appears.

The Queen looks tense, lips pursed even as she tries to offer a comforting smile in their direction.   _Too good to be true_ echoes in Harry’s head and he misses most of what Maester Dumbledore says after calling the meeting to order, instead imagining his best options for fleeing before he can be returned to Privet.  

Why bloody else would he be included in some official, clandestine court meeting?  

And if that wasn’t an indication of the possibly negative oddity situation, the increasingly angry expressions on each of Ginny’s seven brother’s faces would have definitely clued Harry in.  Hell, they’d brought Charlie in from his secret dragon activities for this - how is it not to be taken as ominous?

With a few exceptions - Percy to put a fine point on it - they seem less angry at _Harry_ and more angry in general.  And no disrespect to the third eldest, but if Harry had to pick which brother he was least afraid of, he’d choose Percy in a heartbeat.  Mostly since he’s fairly certain Bill and Charlie would just grab an arm each and tear him limb from limb, and the combination of Ron and the twins would end up being less life threatening but somehow infinitely more undesirable.

Hermione squares her shoulders and strides toward the front of the room, arms laden with leathery tomes and a few scrolls filled with close, cramped writing.  She only looks bashful for a moment, steeling herself not long after a small, secret smile from Ron. _Perhaps this little flirtation is mutual._

Maester Dumbledore stands at her back, a looming but nonetheless calming presence.  Hermione smooths her scholar’s robes and takes a breath. “Your Majesties. As you may know, I am the court librarian and as such, I make it a habit to keep myself apprised of any and all rumors or prophecies relating to the royal family.”

Ginny’s jaw tightens and Harry can’t help but think things are about to become much, _much_ more complicated.

* * *

 

It’s difficult to say exactly how long Hermione’s explanation of the whole situation lasts, but at the close of her remarks - the usual pause for questions - a pin could be heard dropping.  Percy speaks first and it’s not the most friendly beginning. “So why exactly are we just hearing about this now?”

Hermione bristles, but Ron’s fuming is much more demonstrative and Harry’s fairly positive they’ve progressed well beyond flirtation.  They’re all fairly out of it, so to speak, but Ginny still has enough presence of mind to lay a strong hand on Ron’s arm as he makes to rise.

Bill shoots a glare Percy’s way and amends the younger Weasley’s question.  “I think, what Percy means, is how did you manage to track the prophecy down and are we sure it’s valid?”

“There’s a seer - Sybill - and she’s not particularly prolific but her few prophecies have come to pass with startling accuracy.  Still, the fact that she’s so unpredictably in touch with her gift means her offerings end up going unnoticed for long periods of time.  In fact, this prediction is nearly a decade old.”

“How did you track her down?” Harry asks, managing to speak  though his tongue feels like lead.

“My predecessors preferred waiting for prophecies and the like to come to the court, where they would catalogue them upon receipt,” Hermione explains, lips thin with the effort of keeping her unspoken critique just that, “Once I was given the authority, I began using the resources at my disposal to seek out any and all proclamations that pertained to the royal family.”

Charlie looks thoughtful for a moment before he asks, “Is that not an unnecessarily large pool of information?”

Maester Dumbledore steps in here.  “Hermione and I are in agreement that gathering any and all prophecies we can that surround the crown will be useful, regardless of truthfulness.  We may know or believe the prediction inaccurate, but others may not and choose to act accordingly. The Court can capitalize on this type of knowledge in most areas of decision making.”

Ginny clears her throat.  “And what is the decision here?  Are Harry and I - ”

King Arthur smiles, a bit sad.  “Betrothed?”

The Queen looks similarly deflated.  “We had hoped none of our children would be subjected to this sort of pressure - the strain of ruling is enough without losing control of such a personal choice.”

“So we hope to give you - and Harry - some measure of self-determination, however small,” King Arthur finishes, “But I would add you’ve both already been attacked by Riddle’s men - it’s hard to imagine they’re not aware of the prophecy, at least in the most vague terms.”

Ginny looks small, fragile, for the first time since Harry’s known her.  He hates the fact that he has something to do with the guttering of this fiery woman, and hates even more that it seems the fate of the world depends on him dousing the flame even further.  But he won’t do it - not without her full and complete acquiescence. “How long do we have?”

Hermione pipes in, the academic excitement gone in the face of actual ramifications of her findings.  “Ideally, we could begin preparations for marriage within the week.”

* * *

 

Ginny’s brothers seem more overtly enraged than the woman herself, so it’s fairly easy for her to slip away unnoticed in the midst of a family-wide debate.

He thinks about leaving her to herself, but Harry doesn’t want to take away her choice.  They’ve lost enough of that between them. So after waiting just a few moments, he follows.  Ron nods his approval and then returns his attention to Fred and George’s ongoing rant aimed at the world in general, though Dumbledore seems to be bearing the brunt of things.

Apparently, Harry waited too long, because Ginny’s already made herself scarce.  His best bet seems to be wandering about in the hopes that he thinks like Ginny, until a waif of a woman he’s seen wandering about with Ginny in the weeks since he arrived appears.   _Luna_ , he’s fairly certain.

If people could float, Luna seems to do it, “Searching for something, Prince Harry?”

“I uh - Harry’s fine,” he murmurs a bit absent, “Have you seen Ginny - er.  Princess Ginny around?”

Luna essentially waltzes closer and widens her round blue eyes.  “I couldn’t say where she’s got off to,” Luna drawls, though she darts her gaze toward a large tapestry with a kneeling red haired knight and an elegant white unicorn.  

Frowning, Harry takes a hesitant step toward the tapestry and she nods.  “Must be off, I’ll see you soon, Prince - _just_ Harry.”

Once he’s alone in the corridor, Harry pulls back the tapestry enough to find a hidden passage, dim and chilly.

The smell of mold is faint, but present as Harry slips beyond the entry and into the darkness beyond.  He’s just stumbled into the wall after the corridor abruptly twisted right when a muffled chuckle sounds from the darkness.  “Alright there?”

“I’m not the one hiding in the dark like a - ”

“Don’t say a rat.”

Harry laughs.  “Like a - something else creepy crawly that hides in dank spaces.  Is bat ok? You do seem to have bat-like sight capabilities.”

Ginny hums.  “Spell. I’ll teach you soon.  If we can find the time.”

They’re quiet for a moment before Ginny tugs on Harry’s sleeve, leading the way through the passage.  “Taking me somewhere to kill me?”

“That would be one way to avoid marriage.”

“We could always say _no_ ,” Harry tries, boots connecting with a few unidentified somethings he’s trying not to think about, particularly after all the talk of _rats_.

Huffing, Ginny shoulders open a door and Harry’s nearly blinded by sunlight spearing into the dark and sending their fellow passage dwellers scattering.  Once they’ve wandered across the grassy lawn, Ginny says, “We both know our ‘choice’ is an illusion - ”

“So there’s less guilt?” Harry finishes, quiet.

Ginny tips her head.  “And so we feel less like we’re being bred like prize steeds.”

Flushing, Harry manages to grunt a half response as Ginny leads them toward the sparkling lake.  Wind whips up the surface in peaked waves, chaps their cheeks.

For her part, Ginny looks every bit the romantic heroine, hair whipping about her head wildly, her eyes dark and piercing even as they stare distantly.

“You can speak, I won’t shout at you,” Ginny says, glancing over at him briefly, “Not as if _you_ created the prophecy.”

Harry scuffs his boot in the dirt.  “Can’t help but feel like it’s my fault - you were fine, happy before I showed up.”

“We couldn’t just leave you there, Harry,” Ginny says softly, “Everyone had turned a blind eye long enough.”

“I - it wasn’t so bad, later on,” Harry says after a beat, “Figg was as close as I’d ever known to family.  The Dursleys seemed content to let me be.”

“I have a number of questions,” Ginny teases.

“Figg - we met by accident in the woods.  She’s the last living member of her family; they all had magic, save her.  All executed by the Dursleys.”

“Did you ever wonder why they didn’t - why you were never - ”

Harry squints up at a flock of birds flying overhead, arcing through the colored sky.  “I did, still do. It’s not as if the rest of the world wasn’t at least very _suspicious_ of my capabilities.”

Squatting down, Ginny picks up a few smooth stones, setting one skipping across the dark water.  “Can’t be sure. But I have an idea that not everyone’s motivations were pure.”

“Are they ever?” Harry asks, selecting his own projectile and tossing it into the water with a flick of his wrist.  “Can’t say I don’t understand.”

“Mum - and Dad too - they wanted to ride in and rescue you years ago,” Ginny says, another rock bouncing _plip plop_ across the lake.

“Vernon would have started a war.”

Ginny hums, thoughtful.  “That’s what everyone said, though I never quite believed that was the only reason.”

“Perhaps Hermione could shed some light,” Harry guesses, “I suppose that’s not our most pressing issue at the moment.”

“Are _you_ going to prioritize your own selfish desires over literally life or death circumstances for an entire kingdom?”

Deciding to ignore the fact that he feels pretty selfish for agreeing to anything that ends with him married to Ginny, possibly the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, Harry tilts his head. “When the question’s phrased like that, it would be insulting to say I wasn’t sure you’d be alright with the choice.”

“I do hate the choice,” Ginny corrects, wincing when she realizes just how that sounded in context, “Not that - I don’t hate _you_ or the idea of you.”

Harry smiles, gentle.  “I don’t hate the idea of you, either.  So long as we’re clarifying.”

“So we’re doing this?”

Offering his hand, Harry nods.  “We’re doing this.”

Ginny’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly and she seems to nod to herself.  Then, her lips are on his cheek barely a whisper before she’s pulling away. Her eyes spark and then she’s disappeared back into the castle, leaving nothing but a memory of her floral scent and soft lips in her wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2, how's that for a quick update? a bit adult at one point later on, but it fades to black. that's the main reason for the M.

The wedding preparations are no shoddy affair, for all that it’s done before Harry can _breathe_.  And then, he blinks, and it’s the night before his wedding.  Of all the dreams and nightmares Harry’d had over the years about where he’d end up, where his life would go, arranged marriage to a gorgeous unbelievably amazing combination princess-knight because of some vague prophecy about the world ending in fire and brimstone.

There’s a knock at the door of his quarters, startling him enough that he nearly tosses his chosen tome out the window.  Sighing, Harry finds his page and marks it before calling for whoever’s waiting for entrance. “Ron, it’s not dinner yet, is it?”

“No, but it _is_ the night before your wedding.”

“I wasn’t aware I had any other responsibilities,” Harry says, quizzical, “The rehearsal ended, didn’t it?”

“Yes, and now Ginny’s off with Luna doing something with horses and the forest and who knows what,” Ron sums up, “ _We_ are going to grab a couple of horses ourself, ride to our heart’s content, drink our weight in ale, and then have a marksman’s challenge to see if you’re all you’re cracked up to be.”

“Should the alcohol come before the weapons?” Harry asks with a grin.

“Already talking like an old, married man,” Ron strides back over to the door and sticks his head into the hall, “Fred, George, it’s an _emergency_.”

* * *

 

Dawn on Harry’s wedding day is crisp, the sky slowly warming with golden hues.  Carriages, traveling caravans, and carts had been arriving for the last fortnight laden with everything from wine to  elegant hand woven silks to giant pumpkins the size of Harry’s body.

Despite Ron’s threats, their little party the night before was fairly calm, though it did end with Fred and George asleep like drunken logs in the stables.  Harry and Ron managed to stumble their way back into the castle through a few secret passages Ron’s known forever and Harry’s managed to suss out during his time in Gryffindor.

Head aching a bit, Harry rolls from his four poster and slump his way into his bath.  Grateful as he is to have warm soak waiting when he’ll want it, it didn’t take long for him to _beg_ his attendants to leave him to the actual washing alone.

He doesn’t linger, though the water is warm, the air cold, and his head _very_ heavy, and fights the tremble in his hands as he rubs the gifted ‘groom’s’ oils over his damp skin.  Taking a steadying breath, he drags up his trousers and forces his mind to focus on the simple movements.  Not the fact that by this time tomorrow he’ll be married and he and Ginny will have - will be married.

Age, gender, and societal expectations aside, Harry has next to no experience with women.  Not in the sense one experiences women particularly. And tonight, one way or another, he’d be expected to...to _experience_.

First, he’d have to make it through the ceremony and following festivities without making a complete and utter fool of himself.  After, he’d have to do the same but for a smaller audience.

Not that it was a _chore_ \- part of why he feels like an arsehole is because of the very real, very repressed part of him that thinks of it as the furthest thing from a chore.  In a perfect world, a world where Harry got whatever he wished, this all would have happened. Maybe a year or two in the future. A future where he and Ginny _both_ wanted this, where a doom and gloom prophecy wasn’t hanging over their heads like a mournful wedding arbor.

As it was, they were being dressed up like fancy sacrifices for the good of humanity.  And however much the voluntary nature of the whole situation was impressed upon them, their ability to say no couldn’t compare to their responsibility to the contrary.

Luckily, Harry’s time to mull over the issue passes as he’s adequately festooned in his wedding clothes and Ron’s knocking at the door.

The rest of the morning is a rush of breakfast, pacing, rehearsing his lines like a madman, swiping the sweat from his hands, and wondering where Ginny is.

He knew, intellectually, where Ginny was being hidden away.  The _bridal suite_ had been the subject of much discussion over the last weeks.  All of his belongings, save whatever he’d needed for this morning, had been moved in yesterday, along with Ginny’s.

Tonight the last things - namely Harry and Ginny - would find their new homes.

Just as the bells toll the ten o’clock hour, Ron claps Harry on the shoulder and guides him toward the churchyard, looking decidedly uncomfortable in the admittedly stuffy, starchy clothes they’ve all been forced into.

Ginny though - she’s like a vision, sunlight spearing through her hair, wind setting strands flying.  Her gown is a similar cut to the first time he saw her sans armor, the fabric smooth over her lithe form, the deep emerald like a rolling hillside, golden stitches intricate over the bodice and along the slim cut sleeves.  It was breathtaking then; now, Harry might just faint.

“Alright, mate?” Ron murmurs and Harry could _slug_ him for the laughter in his voice.

And Harry’s never really been one to let things go, not completely.  So just as he’s about to take his place on the cobbled path next to the bride, Harry smirks at Ron.  “Think the romance in the air will give you a chance with the court librarian?”

Ron’s neck heats and Harry strides forward, a spring in his step, at least for the moment.

As the officiant begins his opening remarks, Ginny slants a sideways glance at Harry and her lips lift in a smile as she whispers, “You look happy.”

“Just the remnants of a good jab at your brother.”

“This marriage may be successful yet,” Ginny laughs, quiet, though the priest glares in her direction.

Taking Ginny’s hand as instructed, Harry lifts their arms to waist height and they mount the stairs, leaving the cold autumn day behind, and stepping into their future.

* * *

 

Nerves, apparently, can be treated by complete and utter boredom.  Harry’s heart certainly picked up as they entered the cathedral, but once the droning and decidedly unromantic process of getting married truly begins, he’s more nervous about accidentally falling asleep on his feet.

At some point, he and Ginny managed to communicate the issue to each other, commiserating with silent glances and squeezing or pinching as appropriate.

The ceremony has long since ended, the post wedding revel under way, and Ginny’s just swallowed her third goblet of mead.  “You know, Gryffindor likes to say they’ll be remembered as a kingdom of the brave, but I think we’re much more proficient at throwing a celebratory feast.”

Harry chuckles.  “Anyone can face armies in battle, give me a knight who knows her way around a suckling pig.”

Ginny spears another bite of pork with her knife and sighs.  “I had two demands for my wedding garments.”

“Which were?” Harry asks around the rim of his own drink.

“Well, the important one was that I have enough wiggle room to eat as much as I liked,” Ginny says with a grin, scooping another generous helping of potatoes onto her plate.

“No, no.  I want to know both,” Harry prods, “Husband’s privilege.”

Fred saunters past, at that exact moment.  “What’s this I hear about ‘husband’s privileges’?   _We_ are in polite company.”

Luckily, Ginny’s too busy tossing a roll at Fred’s head to note Harry’s flush.  But she must notice that the remainder of the evening his attention is divided, his hands tremble whenever they touch, and he’s completely lost the ability to make eye contact.

Internal battles aside, they can’t escape the expectation of a first dance.  Harry leads Ginny onto the floor as delicate music swells and the hall falls silent.  With a slight swirl of her skirts, Ginny comes to rest in the arc of Harry’s arm, their free hands clasping together like that first dance months ago.

“So serious, Prince Harry,” Ginny says, quiet.

“Trying not to step on your toes, Princess Ginny.”

“I can take it,” Ginny assures him, rolling her shoulders back, “I am a knight, first.”

“Believe me, I am fully aware,” Harry says easily, thumb brushing across the back of her hand in an unconscious gesture.

Ginny smiles, razor sharp as she moves imperceptibly closer.  “Does that scare you?”

His heart thrums.  “Far from it.”

“Glad to hear.”

The music swells to a lilting close and Harry lets Ginny twirl from his arms, barely keeping a grip on the calloused tips of her fingers as he dips into a low bow.  “Thank you, m’lady.”

“Serious _and_ formal,” Ginny remarks as they leave the dancefloor to light applause.

Harry lets her mount the dais platform first, though he keeps his grip on her hand throughout.  So far, he likes this part of marriage. “Trying to start off on the right foot. It will make your ultimate disappointment in me all the more enjoyable.”

“But now you’ve spoiled the surprise,” Ginny laughs, dropping into her chair as Harry does the same.  

“You underestimate how much I have hoodwinked you.”

“We’ll see, _husband_.”

* * *

Sadly, the ease and familiarity of their wedding celebration ends the minute Luna arrives to let them know their bedchamber has been prepared.

Tension slithers up Harry’s spine as they exit the hall to much fanfare and some teasing.  Ginny offers her brothers a few choice gestures that Molly luckily misses in all the excitement.  

The silence once they leave the crowding revelers is deafening and sudden.  Ginny’s slippers are soft, satiny things for fashion more than practicality and Harry’s boots are his usual, well loved and perfect for the hunt, so they move through the castle on nearly silent feet.  

Ginny shivers as a wintery wind whistles around the castle, so biting it feels as if the thick stone walls are parchment rustling on the breeze.  He’s got nothing to offer her, so Harry just looks at his hands helpless before breaking the quiet. “I’m surprised - no one’s escorting us?”

“I told mum, dad, and anyone else who had something to say that we could find our way well enough.”

Harry smiles.  “Well I’m not near the expert you are, but I trust my gallant knight would rescue me if I got lost.”

Sketching a bow, Ginny puts a posh, lofty lilt on her voice, “Why of course, my lord.  The chivalric code _demands_ such behavior.”

Once she rises, Ginny links her arm through his, much more companionable and easy.  Also, much closer.

Hoping to keep his mind focused despite that floral scent that drives him mad, Harry begins blurting whatever he can think of, which begins with, “So, consummation.”

Ginny trips but manages to keep her feet, coughing needlessly.  “You - is that a question?”

“I - yes,” Harry’s blush must be visible from the moon, “Are we - who will - how?”

“How do we consummate?  I assumed you’d have some clue by our age.”

“Theoretical, yes,” Harry says, “I mean.  Will it be _ceremonious_?”

They reach the bridal suite and Ginny pauses in the empty corridor.  “No. We’re expected to _consummate_ .  But I said marrying and putting on that show was one thing - making this... _that_ a show was something else entirely.”

Harry shoulders the door open and gestures for Ginny to enter first.  She does and waits for him to follow. It’s too tense, too much all at once.  

So of course, Harry decides awkward levity is the best option.  “Well?”

Ginny blinks, “Well what?  It’s been a long day and I don’t view our marriage bed as a required duty, just so we’re clear.”

Harry’s mouth goes a bit dry at the very legitimate reality that they will now be sharing a _marriage bed_ .  But he does keep his train of thought nonetheless.  “Well I’m _supposed_ to be carried over the threshold.  It’s for luck and protection from _evil spirits_.”

Her shoulders loosen and Ginny dissolves into genuine laughter, tears streaming from here eyes.  Eventually she calms and crosses back toward the doorway.

“S’pose this is my duty.”

“It absolutely is.  Thank you for recognizing my legitimate claim.”

Rolling her eyes, Ginny turns around and squats low.  “Well, up you get, Prince.”

Harry does as he’s told, linking his arms around Ginny’s shoulders as she grasps his legs where they’re wrapped around her middle.

They’re halfway over the threshold when a shuffling in the hall draws their attention.  Harry grips Ginny’s middle tighter with his legs and Ginny does her best to put on a fighting stance while a grown man clings to her back like a monkey.

“Shite, Ron,” Ginny groans, loosening her grasp so Harry slips to the floor, standing just over her shoulder.

“What are you - ”

“I suppose this is one way to begin the wedding night festivities.”

“Stuff it,” Harry growls, pushing the door shut with a thud.

Ginny clears her throat.  “I’ll uh - I’ll wash up first.  Choose whichever side you like.”

The following morning, Harry wakes warm, content, and surrounded by the smell of spring.  Ginny’s soft, pressed against his back and her muscled arm lying gentle over his middle. All in all, it’s not an unpleasant way to spend the first few moments of awareness - but it does make Harry’s life eons more complicated.

* * *

 

Despite the upheaval Harry expected, life remains relatively normal in the weeks following his marriage.  Which is nice, in a sense, nice. Comforting even. What’s nice but perhaps not comforting in the traditional sense, is Ginny’s intense tendency for snuggling.  It’s jarring at first, but eventually Harry acclimates. Which is why when winter turns to spring and Ginny’s away on a training exercise with her knights, Harry suddenly finds himself incapable of sleep.  It’s a difficult fortnight which ends up with Harry reading through three shelves of the library, catching up on two years of magical training with Maester Dumbledore, and sleeping when he manages to drift off in the afternoons beneath a swaying willow he’s come to love.

It’s one such afternoon when a shadow moves in the way of the sun’s rays and wakes him.  

“Nice kip?”

“Gin.”

“Harry.  I’m gone for two weeks and my husband turns into a lazy lump,” Ginny teases, offering a hand up.

Once he’s regained his feet, Ginny keeps her hand in his, loose and familiar.  That’s another thing she’s started doing since the wedding. Definitely filed under the insanity inducing but extremely pleasant category.

“Excuse _me_ , I have been training my _mind_.”

Ginny flicks her braid over her shoulder and smirks at Harry.  “I guess I’m doomed to be your white knight for all eternity.”

“Should’ve put that in our vows,” Harry says, throwing caution to the wind and knitting his fingers between hers.

Ginny’s laugh warms Harry like a warm summer breeze and then, she’s tugging his hand and his lips are on hers.

Pulling away, mostly because of his need for air, Harry can’t help the unbridled smile that tears across his face.  “How long have you been plotting that one?”

“Dunno - just came to me.”

“Maybe it was after witnessing my glorious skills on the dancefloor.”

That earns him a snort.

“Or perhaps my prowess with a bow?”

“By your reckoning, I’m likely to be loads more attracted to myself,” Ginny teases, pressing her lips to his again, short, but with the heavy taste of promise.

“Yes but my lips are so _soft_.”

Another kiss has Ginny humming against said soft lips.  God, he can’t imagine wanting to do anything else.

Ginny, however, seems more capable of staying on task.  Which is hopefully a testament to her ability to focus, not his ability in the _romantic arts_.  She is at least, a little breathless when she speaks, “I did come to find you for a reason.”

“This wasn’t it?” Harry murmurs, kissing her again.

“This was me softening you up - metaphorically - so I could get the information I’m looking for.”

It’s hard to feel self conscious about his very clear attraction when Ginny’s looking at him like that, like she might just toss him over her shoulder and carry him off somewhere private.

But she’s got other things in mind.  Enjoyable to be sure, but not the type he’d really like at the moment.

Ginny leads the way toward the training grounds, toward the target range, where two bows are ready and waiting.  “I would like _you_ , my husband, to teach _me_ , your lovely wife, how to pull off that little trick with the arrow splitting.”

“I can hardly reveal the secrets of my prowess,” Harry says, lofty, as he tests out his bow.

Ginny does the same, then easily slots an arrow in place and lets it fly.  It finds its home perfectly centered on the target. She glances over at him.  “Now do it, prove last time wasn’t just dumb - ” Harry fires his arrow and it splits Ginny’s with a resounding crack, “luck.”

“How’s that, m’lady?”

“I’m feeling quite amorous,” Ginny says with a wink, “Now teach me.  With this I could’ve destroyed Chang without her little midnight tip.”

“I have been meaning to ask about that,” Harry says without thinking.  Ginny’s confusion reminds him he wasn’t actually supposed to have seen their little detente.  “I was locked up in my room, saw you and the other knight conferring in the dark.”

“That phrasing makes things sound so much more intriguing than reality,” Ginny muses, flexing her fingers, “Chang, she had a chosen husband-to-be.  All was set including the date but when her family learned you would be a contender for her hand should she win the tourney. Well she couldn’t lose intentionally but she could tip me off to some of her tells.  Her weaknesses.”

“She’d best hope you never meat in battle,” Harry murmurs.

“I had that tournament in hand well before her pity chat,” Ginny grumbles, “Now teach.”

Two hours in, Ginny’s gotten three arrows halfway down the shaft, Harry’s distracted her with kisses on her neck on five separate occasions, and Colin’s walked in on them at the beginning of occasion six.  

Ginny appears on the verge of murder - Harry’s found a particular spot behind her ear that nearly makes her purr - when Colin presents the picnic lunch he’d packed them from the kitchens.  Apparently, satisfying one type of hunger allows Ginny to forget interruption of the other.

Cold chicken, hard cheese, fresh baked bread, plump grapes ripe for tossing - to be honest, it’s delicious enough Harry can’t really blame her shift in priorities.  Once they’ve demolished the gift from Colin and sworn to reward his gallantry abundantly, Ginny lies back in the swaying grasses and lets Harry pillow his head in her lap.

The clouds move slowly overhead, long and striated against the pale blue sky.  Honestly, Harry’s never been so content.

Ginny’s fingers find his hair, carding through the wild locks, and now _he’s_ the one nearly purring.  “Where’d you learn all this?”

“The thing with the grapes?”

She tugs his hair, affectionate; he can feel her steady breaths, hear her heartbeat.  “The arrow bit - was that Figg too?”

“Probably anything good about me is from that woman.”

“Your parents - they were good.  Mum mentioned,” Ginny resumes her strokes, “You should ask her.”

“She wouldn’t - I’m sure she’s quite busy,” Harry finally says.

“Mum always has time for mothering her ‘little chickens’ - you’re definitely one of those now,” Ginny assures him, then somehow manages to get them face to face in a few maneuvers, barely a palm’s width of matted grass between them.

“I’ve thought about it.  Bringing Figg here,” Harry says after a beat, “But I can’t bear being the reason she leaves those woods.  It’s the last of her family. With everything the Dursleys have done, I don’t think she could truly be happy knowing they finally got their claws in that hidden eden.”

“They don’t know about it?”

“She fled - you know.  After. The family had a hunting cabin, back before hunting turned into _poaching_.  It’s so tucked away and the woodsmen under the Dursley’s employ are hardly expert.”

Ginny swipes at his cheek, affectionate, and he realizes tears have streaked down in rivulets.  Her eyes are warm and searching in a way he’d ever dreamed someone would look at him.

It looks as if she’s on the verge of something, her mouth still forming the words.  He’s never seen hesitation on her face before - Ginny’s one to act first, question later - and it’s odd.  

Before he has a chance to ruminate further or have his curiosity sated by the woman herself, Colin returns.  This time without food and Harry really might shove him in the lake.

“Queen Molly asked that I remind you of tonight’s dinner, which will be a celebration of your sixth month of matrimony as well as the successful completion of - ”

Ginny pushes up on one palm, raising the other to quiet Colin mid-oration.  “You can forgo the full lecture. We’re being summoned?”

“Yes.  There was a uh - “ he flushes, “A bit about being sure no one arrived smelling like - “

“Shit?” GInny supplies, ever helpful as she rises and brushes her trousers clean.

That startles a laugh out of Colin and reminds Harry how attractive he finds his mischievous wife.  “The Queen would never say.”

“We’ll be at dinner, freshly washed and dressed, I swear it,” Ginny finally agrees, mock solemnity at its finest.

Colin darts away, back in the direction of the castle with their picnic basket in tow, and Harry pulls Ginny in for one last press of his lips.  “ _You_ are a little troublemaker.”

“I hope it’s not a terrible surprise,” Ginny murmurs against his mouth, arms dragging them closer together.

“The best kind, I assure you.”

* * *

 

After that afternoon, it’s as if a dam has broken and somehow the urges previously repressed are completely untamable.  Ginny takes to kidnapping Harry to some of her favorite hiding places - secret rooms, passages, alcoves, the old barns, an ancient tree with particularly wide branches - and they seem to do everything two people can do just shy of _actually_ doing everything.

Harry’s joy isn’t just at their hormonal explorations.  Ginny’s everything, a blissful oblivion that feels like a blessing he hasn’t earned.  Whatever world, whatever higher power, whatever prophecy brought them together, he can’t find the desire to question it any longer.  

Hermione, however, has no such decrease in her interests, much to Ron’s disappointment.  Which is why Harry finds a particularly _blissful_ encounter with Ginny behind a tapestry of dancing nymphs cut short by the curly-haired librarian.

Ron, apparently following Hermione around in the hopes that she’ll trip reading a book and his lips will break her fall, groans at their disheveled but not altogether indecent state.  “Don’t you have _rooms_ for this shite?”

“I’ll enjoy my husband wherever I like,” Ginny says, not at all ashamed.

Harry’s not really either, though he is glad for a host of reasons that Ginny’s standing between him and her brother.

After much glaring, a brief discussion, and some vague but intimidating statements from Hermione, the foursome end up cloistered in the Royal Library where all official documents, histories, and prophecies are stored.

“I’ve been poring over everything I could track down on this prophecy and it turns out there was another from the same woman nearly twenty years ago.”

Harry blinks, “She _is_ a seer.”

Ron fights the laughter tickling at his lips, still hoping to remain in Hermione’s good graces and perhaps advance further.  Harry can’t quite bring himself to blame Ron, particularly since Ginny has no such qualms, letting out a snort even as Hermione sighs.  “A prophecy regarding _you_ Harry.”

Ginny’s expression becomes that of a warrior, jaw taut, eyes hard, as she leans on her forearms.  “What exactly does it say?”

Hermione looks a bit gratified that she’s finally dropped the bit of information to set them aflame, but doesn’t gloat.  “Given the age and relatively poor history of prophecy tracking in the past, we don’t have as solid of a grasp on the exact contents.  But it does mention blood rites connected maternal line that, similarly to the later prophecy, could either protect or destroy depending on the actions of those named.”

Harry catches on first.  “Petunia.”

Nodding, Hermione presses on, “I believe, the Dursleys kept you as they did and for lack of a better term, disposed of you in the manner chosen, to comply with the specific guidelines of the first prophecy.  No harm could come to you - at least not in the most extreme sense - or it would be visited on them tenfold. Based on what you’ve said and what information I’ve gathered, they managed to just butt up against that demarcation to treat you terribly as possible without damning themselves.”

Ginny grips his hand beneath the table even as her fist clenches on the tabletop.  “And this is just for our edification?”

Ron rolls his eyes, “Don’t you know understanding the present and future is easier through the lens of the past?”

Hermione’s hand jolts, knocking three half empty ink wells from the table along with a pile of discarded quills, but she doesn’t move to collect them, eyes only for Ron.  “You - you listen.”

Red from the back of his neck to the tips of his ears, Ron grumbles, “Well ‘course I do - you’re brilliant.”

Ginny’s jaw falls open and Harry can’t do much but gape either, particularly as Hermione flings herself into Ron’s arms, upending her chair and nearly knocking him backward.

After a moment, Ginny rises and peers over the table edge where the new lovers are luckily talking in whispered tones rather than other things one could do with a beau underneath a table.  “Shall we reconvene later?”

The couple glance up at Ginny in unison, bleary eyed and seeming to have forgotten the rest of the world existed.  Ron speaks first, bringing them both upright. “No, no. Hermione will want to finish this. And then I’ll want to have her all to myself.”

Hermione blushes, but rights her dark robes and re-takes her seat.   “The newer prophecy is connected, the thread of the maternal line is what links you and Ginny.”

Harry feels as if he’s about to lose his lunch and Ginny nearly flips the table.  “We’re - what?”  
“You’re not related.  It’s about the flame haired woman - Harry’s mother, Lily, had deep red hair, dark, burning embers.  In the original prophecy, it signaled the start, coals warming at the beginning of an inferno. Ginny - she’s the inferno.  Harry’s, well he’s the center of it all, somehow.”

Eyes trained on the scarred wood table, Harry manages to verbalize his question, though it feels as if he’s leagues beneath a wind-tossed ocean.  “We married. Prophecy fulfilled, everyone’s safe. Right?”

“The marriage was certainly a necessary step.  I know no one particularly _wanted_ the match but - ”

Harry doesn’t really hear much after that, his hand slipping from Ginny’s and lying useless alongside its twin.  Throughout the remaining explanation, Ginny steals worried glances at Harry and eventually manages to get them both excused.  

She could have lead him anywhere, pushed him out a window, and Harry’s too lost, too dazed to even protect himself.  

It’s not that he wasn’t aware that their marriage was arranged, a decision made for the good of mankind.  But these last months, he’d let himself forget, just a little bit. Pretend that maybe Ginny could love him someday.  That he was a person worth -

Somehow, he’s sitting on his side of their bed, late afternoon sun glaring in his eyes as Ginny putters about.  He had some vague impressions of Ginny leading him from the library, through side passages and empty corridors until they reached their rooms.  After some clattering, her short, quiet strides bring her before him, wash basin in hand. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No - just remembered something I shouldn’t have let myself forget.”

Ginny pauses ringing out a creamy muslin cloth.  “About the prophecy? Should I fetch Hermione?”

Despite everything, he still grasps her arm, unwilling to let her leave.  “No. Not that. I just - no one has ever really wanted me. I’m a burden, either forced on people by fate or chance or some sense of duty.  The universe knew - knew I would roam the world alone without the literal threat of humanity’s eradication in my corner.”

“Harry.”

“And this time, these months with you, I let myself forget.  Started to delude myself into thinking we were - ”

Her hands grip the sides of his face, damp from the chilly water, and bring his forehead to hers.  “Harry, my husband, my _love_ .  I want you.   _I_ want _you_ .  Not because of a prophecy, not because of whatever _power you know not_ shite, not because we’re going to save the world.”

She leans up and kisses him, long and deep, her own tears mixing with his even as she guides him backward, looms overhead.  “I want you and your silly sideways grins, those freckles that appear after a day spent in the sun, your cheeky wit that always surprises a laugh out of me, your sense of devotion to people you love, your knobby knees - ”

Harry laughs, watery.  “I sound like a real catch.”

“I wanted you since that first day, the sad, lonely prince wandering around like a little will-o-the-wisp,” Ginny whispers, her hands gently mapping every bit of him.

“You saw?”

“Why of course, I’m the greatest knight in the land,” Ginny answers with a wink, “I won myself a damsel in distress for my troubles.”

“I love you too, so long as we’re saying it now,” Harry whispers against her skin.  Ginny sighs, working the laces of his tunic free, pressing her lips along his throat, lower.

Her fingers eventually fall to the waistband of his trousers, lift the hem of his shirt free and over his head with some slight maneuvering.  

Harry rolls them over until he’s in the cradle of her thighs, her face flushed, braid nearly gone, and eyes only for him.  

He’s slower, teasing, as he tugs out the stays on her top, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin after each pull.  She sighs, breaths labored as she draws him closer.

Her hands find his hips, dragging him closer as she swallows his groan.  “Your trousers.”

Blinking, sanity nearly gone, Harry pushes up on his elbows only to find Ginny smirking below him.  That mischievous grin he’d love to kiss off her lips -

She presses, “We can’t have much fun when you’re all tied up.”

Finally cottoning on, Harry rolls off and tugs his boots free.  He’s about to continue with his trousers when he recalls other people exist and strides across the room, toward the door, intent on locking it.  Though when his fingers land on the key, it’s already slid the bolt home. He pauses, mouth slack.

Ginny sits up, looking every bit debauched - her hair wild and uncontrolled, her bodice open and miles of her milky, freckled skin on display, her lips rosy with his kisses.  “Alright?”

Harry nods, swallowing hard.  “The uh - the door was locked already.”

“Mm, that accidental magic finally doing some good,” she laughs, quiet.  

It’s something to consider, the motivations for his accidental magic - intent is always the key.  But right _now_ , his mind is utterly consumed with Ginny.  “Are you? Alright, that is?”

For the first time, she seems to pause and Harry returns to her side, trying to keep his mind clear.  “We don’t have to - ”

Her eyes drop to his chest, fingertips finding each wrinkle, scar, and line of sinewy muscle.  “I should really like to, if you’re in agreement.”

Words lost for the moment, Harry grabs Ginny around the waist and lifts her into his lap, her skirt riding up so her lithe, battle hardened legs border his.  They rock backward, lost in the smell, the taste of each other, pausing only to lift Ginny’s gown clear overhead and tossing it indiscriminately.

Something clatters in the background and Ginny laughs against his throat.  “Just put that anywhere.”

“Nothing’s irreplaceable,” Harry groans, not even breaking contact between his lips and her skin.

“You could’ve set the castle on fire if that was a candle,” Ginny answers, breath catching as his attentions wander further south.

“Stone castles - quite safe from flames,” Harry answers, reasonable as he shifts again, leaving Ginny splayed across the bedclothes beneath him.

Her hands slip past the waistband of his trousers, pulling him closer even as she works them over his hips.  “Harry.”

He moans into her mouth, rocking closer.  “Yes, love?”

“No more talking.”

* * *

 

Harry has a mouthful of hair when he wakes, and a slim, firecracker of a woman in his arms.  She’s doing her best not to wake him, or at least _seem_ like she’s  trying not to wake him.  Her fingers stroke along his back in barely there touches, her lips brushing his shoulder like a whisper, their legs wound together.  “Alright?”

She shifts, nuzzling into his chest and dragging the bedclothes tighter around their entwined bodies.  “Of course.”

“It’s just.  Last night,” Harry says, soft as he presses his lips to her forehead, “We hadn’t before - I hadn’t ever.”

“Neither had I,” Ginny supplies, fingers tickling over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, his brows, “In case you were wondering.”

Leaning in, Harry brushes his nose along hers, their lips connecting in a soft kiss.  His eyes stay shut when he says in a breath, “No, but it was sudden. And I didn’t want you to think - to think it wasn’t important to me.”

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny murmurs, “I know.  It was important to me too.”

She kisses the response from his lips, long, deep, and lingering so his eyes cross with it.  And in case he thought Ginny didn’t notice, her grin is answer enough. Harry sighs. “By the way, you know you can wake me up.”

Ginny hums.  “You know by now I like cuddling.”

Laughing, Harry pulls Ginny fully atop his chest, fingers tickling over her spine.  “I know - but you like other things too.”

“There’s time for another go yet,” Ginny murmurs, nipping at his jaw.

“What’s this, bout four?”

Ginny sits back, flips her hair over to one side and smiles dangerously.  “Nope. And I was hoping for at least five and six.”

She tips forward intent on renewing her attentions on Harry’s collar bone, when a loud rumble sounds from Ginny’s stomach.  Her forehead drops to Harry’s shoulder and his chuckles shake the bed. “Hungry?”

“We skipped _dinner_ ,” Ginny groans.

“Didn’t hear you complaining - plus we had apples,” Harry teases, prodding Ginny to the side as he rolls free from the bedclothes.

He nearly trips over Ginny’s gown from the day before and wanders over to the bathing room where Ginny’s running a damp cloth over her skin.  “Look what I found - no flames in sight.”

“It is a bit torn in the middle there,” Ginny says with a grin, “Clearly I’m a very motivating lover.”

Harry closes the remaining distance between them, sweeping Ginny into his arms, against his chest.  “Perhaps _I_ am - you tugged that dress off pretty quickly.”

Ginny kisses him again, short.  “We can debate this later, even have another run for academic purposes.  But as of _now_ you need to get some food in your hungry bride’s belly.”

* * *

 

The day proceeds in an oddly normal fashion, aside from the fact that congratulations for an expertly executed shot tends to be rewarded with a kiss or two, and sparring gets a bit more... _intense_.

If asked, Harry would have assumed the latter would be the opposite result - now that they’ve done the deed, so to speak, maybe the unresolved feelings would be _resolved_.  But now he knows the details of Ginny and they’ve both discovered his ticklish spot just behind his right ear, and - and now she’s about to sweep his legs from beneath him.

Harry lands with a thud to the tune of Ginny’s chuckles.  “Can’t you take it easy on your poor, tired husband?”

“No one’s going to give you an easy go of it on the battlefield because you took your wife to bed the night before,” Ginny says with a smirk, offering him a hand.

However, Harry has never been one to take teasing lying down. Or, in this case, he’s not the type to remain the _only_ one lying down.

Ginny lands with an _oof_ , sprawled across his middle.  “That was dirty, sir.”

“See you’ve really set me up for some flirtatious, teasing something or other, but I think you might slap me for it.”

She kisses him once, twice, before leaning close so her breath tickles Harry’s ear.  “Only if you ask nicely.”

Harry’s rejoinder is lost to the world when Colin comes over the hillside, out of breath and nearly sending himself sprawling.  “The - there’s been a messenger. We’re under attack,” Ginny jolts up and Harry’s soon to follow as Colin continues, “Or we’re about to be.”

They both scramble to their feet and all three run back to the castle as fast as possible.

On the way back, Colin fills them in on the details - however vague and sparse.  Riddle had sent a messenger from his army’s encampment a day’s journey out, notifying the kingdom of Gryffindor of the coming attack from Morsmordre.

“We can’t harm the messenger but have we questioned him?”

“That might be a bit difficult,” Colin hedges.

Ginny grunts under her breath while Harry takes the lead.  “Which means?”

“It wasn’t a ‘messenger’ in the traditional sense.  They sent a fire attack, Riddle’s specialty like we’ve heard.”

Ginny’s steps falter and Harry reaches over to grasp her hand, squeezing comfortingly.  “Let’s get a move on then.”

The trek to and from training fields has never felt a long distance before, but today it’s as if an eternity passes.  Once they arrive, the fires have been quenched and the injured have been lead or carried to the healers.

Ron meets them at the castle gates, winded and face streaked with soot, but otherwise unharmed.  “Injuries, but nothing too serious. No dead.”

“Mum and Dad?”

“Sequestered with the rest of the family,” Ron answers, “Just waiting for our General.”

“Lead the way, Master of Strategy,” Ginny says and Ron smiles, grim.

Harry doesn’t get much chance to ask whether he’s included in the invitation to the war room so he follows along at a slight distance, Ginny and Ron’s bright heads bowed together as they stride with purpose through the eerily quiet halls.

The calm before the storm.

* * *

 

There’s not much debate, Riddle’s clearly declared war and they’re not going to lie back and wait for the terms of surrender.

Bill smiles grimly.  “We’ve got the best army - best general and best strategist on the continent.”

With a nod, Ginny rises and takes her place at the far wall where Hermione’s hung their most detailed and accurate map of the kingdom.    “We’ll need to reserve a reasonable number of our troops for defensive maneuvers. If we ride out with too large a force to meet them, they can either surround us from all sides or worse, attack an inadequately armed city.”

Ron hums and picks up the thread.  “The catacombs are our best stronghold, in terms of ease of evacuation and strength of the wards.”

“Plus, one would hope Riddle at least had respect for the honored dead,” Percy puts in with a frown.

Fred snorts.  “He clearly doesn’t have respect for much of anything - even the appropriate chivalric requirements of battle.”

“Now who sounds like a swot?” Hermione murmurs.  Harry barely stifles his laugh.

In the name of preserving the royal line, Molly, Arthur, Bill and his family are all hidden away in the catacombs with as large a number as can be spared.

For his part, Harry takes to the ramparts, bow in hand and a full quiver at his back.  Ginny walks the battlements, giving last minute instructions and offering encouragement to the men and women taking their places at each embrasure.  

Harry watches Ginny, fully in her element, displaying enough swagger and expertise to ensure the confidence of her army.  Each soldier, once she leaves their side, stands taller and straighter, eager to live up to her faith.

Once she’s completed her circuit, Harry glances around and snags her hand to pull Ginny down the stairs and into an alcove at the base.  “Gin.”

“I have to lead them, Harry.”

“I know - of course.  You’re you,” Harry says with a soft smile, still holding her hand tight while his other fingers brush her cheek.  “Just. Don’t die.”

Sniffing, Ginny swipes at her cheeks and presses her lips to his, strong and sure.  “You either. We’ve only just found each other.”

Harry tips his forehead to hers, that flowery scent filling his lungs, overwhelming the acrid smell of Riddle’s opening destruction.  “And I have _so_ many ideas about our new activities in the marriage bed.”

“Keep your mind on the arrows in your other quiver, eh?”

“Watch your back, General,” Harry murmurs.

“That’s what my archers are for.”

With a final kiss, Ginny disappears into the darkness and Harry returns to his place among the archers.

* * *

 

It’s strange, the way all’s quiet one moment, and the next, the world seems set ablaze with the clang of swords, spellfire sending up plumes of multicolored smoke.  Still, bow in hand, Harry’s mind develops a singular focus. Familiar, despite the circumstances.

Over his months in Gryffindor, he’s perfected the art of igniting his arrowheads with magic and with each launch, the knights of Morsmordre are pushed back, delayed in their assault on Gryffindor’s walls.  Harry’s fellow archers are no slouches either, and together they manage to keep the invaders at bay.

Ginny lead the  Gryffindor army into the fray with Ron at her side, her hair tucked away beneath her helmet, her body disguised in her expertly wrought armor.  But Harry would know her anywhere. The swipes of her sword like a dance all her own, the darting maneuvers as she leads her mount through the ranks as familiar as his own hand.

He can only watch for as long as it takes him to reload, shorter even, since his eyes are seeking another target almost the instant his last arrow leaves his fingers.

Harry’s just returned from replenishing his quiver when the castle rocks with some unseen force, nearly sending him headlong over the castle wall.  Ears ringing, Harry blinks the haze from his eyes and finds the smoke rising from the southern corner of the castle.

Exactly where the largest tunnel in the catacombs rests.

Barely managing to do so, Harry slings his bow over his shoulder and takes the stairs two at a time, palms running along the rough walls to keep him upright.  He’s halfway across the entry hall when Ginny runs in, breathless and sans helmet.

“You - the catacombs.”

Harry nods, leading the way while Ginny takes stock of her weapons.  They’re nearing the closest entrance when Ginny grabs his arm and tugs him toward a door he’s never noticed before.  “Small armory here - I’d like a fresh dagger or two and you could use some weapons better suited to close range encounters.”

They work quickly, and the pause serves the dual purpose of giving Ginny a chance to catch her breath.  It had been a mad dash from the center of the fray back to the castle.

Together, they keep up a steady pace and Ginny shows Harry a few passages he’s never had need for in the past.  The ancient door’s been blasted open, tendrils of blue-black smoke curling from inside. Harry takes one whiff and feels his head go a bit topsy turvy before he pulls Ginny backward.  “It’s poison - not deadly, I don’t think. Just knock us out.”

At Ginny’s questioning look, Harry adds, “Figg didn’t have magic and we weren’t sure how much of a trace there might be so I did a lot of theory and a _lot_ of potions and the like.”

“Here,” Ginny strides toward him and presses her palm over his nose and mouth, rattling off some string of phrases Harry’s never heard.

It feels as though he might suffocate for a moment and then his lungs are clear, nostrils filling with a fresh flowery scent.  When he furrows his brow in confusion, Ginny explains, “It’s like a handprint, magic leaves traces of the wielder.”

“I don’t know that spell yet - ”

“It’s half intent, you’ll pick it up in no time.  For now, I can manage it,” Ginny says with a wink, “Wouldn’t be much of a general if I got choked up all the time.”

After performing the charm on herself, Ginny draws her sword, and slinks into the stairwell on soft feet.  They pause halfway down and Ginny beckons him closer, her voice barely audible. “No real heat. Fire hasn’t caught.”

At Harry’s nod of understanding, she continues their descent.  

The catacombs are dimly lit, torches glowing from their places around the chamber.  Ginny raises her arm and they both come to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

“Why can’t we just _off_ the slobs?” a thin voice drawls.

A flash of magic rumbles through the room like a wave, nearly knocking Harry from his feet.  For the first time, Ginny’s steely gaze falters.

“We cannot ‘just off’ the royal family because we must first _frame_ a certain little sniveling orphan.”

Harry’s jaw tightens and Ginny shakes her head, waiting for what he doesn’t know.  But whatever it was, he doesn’t have long to wonder before the second voice speaks again, louder and closer.  “It seems the opportune moment has come, Lucius. Our marks have come to us.”

“Please, come introduce yourselves, though you need no introduction, my dear Prince Harry and Princess Ginevra.”

Ginny glances at Harry once, lingering, before squaring her shoulders and sauntering out into the open.  “Wrong on both counts, just yours truly and it’s _General_ on the battlefield.  When you and your sorry lot invaded a peaceful kingdom, you made certain that’s exactly what this is.”

Harry knows what she’s doing, it’s a delay, for him.  One he can interpret in two ways - to run, or to manage to make his damn accidental magic be _intentional_ for once.

Sparks swirl around his fingers in random circuits and his pulse rises just before he makes his entrance.  Slightly less dramatic than he’d like, ideally, but stealth can be necessary in certain circumstances.

Ginny’s let Riddle back her into a corner, barely spares Harry a glance but he reads her meaning nonetheless.

In the space of a breath, Harry aims all his focused energy on Riddle, sending the serpentine man sprawling, skull cracking against the wall. His laugh is a low rattle, dark hair mussed across his waxy face.  “The golden boy himself, come to rescue the damsel in distress.”

Ginny harrumphs, “I was _not_ distressed,” just as Harry scoffs his own, “Hardly a damsel.”

Riddle’s eyes narrow as the crosses the room toward Harry, who still hasn’t located the royal family or their guards in the destruction.  The quicker they dispatch Riddle, the sooner the injured can be treated.

It seems all this has taken place over the span of a few moments when Lucius - Riddle’s flaxen haired lackey - decides to make himself known with a dagger flung haphazardly in Ginny’s direction.  She avoids it easily and the blade lands with a clatter.

The short distance made Lucius’ failure all the more pitiful, and also enabled Ginny to easily shoulder him to the ground.

Riddle, meanwhile, has returned his full attention to Harry.  “Since your wife and my - toad, are keeping each other busy, how about we work this out, man to man.”

Harry laughs, flexing his fingers, “Would be easier if we were both men.”

Growling, Riddle lunches forward, sending an arc of power at Harry’s ribcage.  He stumbles backward, feet catching on rubble.

Without pausing, Riddle advances on Harry, hands already glowing with dark, deadly magic.  “You’ll never make much progress if you’re too afraid to actually cause _harm_ , dear Harry.”

Harry’s magic whirls, licking around Riddle’s wrists, one and then the other, pinning him back for a few moments before Riddle works his hands free again.  “Fear is hardly the problem - you _Tom_ will never succeed in your plans for world domination, if you can’t recognize a distraction for what it is.”

There’s a unique kind of satisfaction in the confusion that flutters across Riddle’s face - confusion followed by shock and anger in quick succession as Ginny’s dagger slides home under his ribs, just like she’s shown Harry a thousand times.

Riddle falls to the ground with a dull thud, final and without the sense of climax a man seeking eternal memory would have wanted.  Which why it’s better than Harry could have imagined.

Ginny’s dagger almost seems to hover in the air as their eyes connect across the room.  

Her mouth falls open, some unknown phrase dies on her lips as a groan sounds from the deeper tunnels.  The blade falls from her fingers. “ _Mum._ ”

* * *

 

Riddles’ death, once announced, is followed immediately by at least half of the Morsmordre forces surrendering.  The other half seem to think they can make a break for it - an escape that’s quickly thwarted by Ginny’s forces emerging from their positions throughout the forests that surround Gryffindor.  Ron and Percy start a slapdash sort of holding camp for the prisoners outside the city gates.

It’s only later that Harry and Ginny learn the details of Morsmordre’s capitulation; almost immediately after Riddle’s body slumped to the ground, the dangerous state of Molly and Arthur’s health became clear.  Seeing Ginny’s fingers tremble as she reached between them helplessly, Harry bound and gagged still unconscious Lucius and helped Ginny rise to her feet.

“I’ll fetch Madame Pomfrey - are you alright here?”

Ginny nods.  “Once Mum and Dad are stable, I’ll check over the soldiers who were guarding them,” she says, glancing toward the slowly rousing from their magically induced sleep.  Frowning, Ginny turns to her mother, “Bill?”

Molly smiles weakly, “Your father was the closest to the explosion, he recognized the smoke.  Bill, Fleur, and Victoire were able to disappear further into the catacombs. That’s why Riddle was delaying.”

The castle’s in an uproar when Harry returns from the catacombs, soldiers, medics, and castle staff rushing about in organized chaos.  It seems the damage to the castle itself was minimal, and as far as Harry knew, the only enemy breach had been through the catacombs.

Pomfrey’s quarters were sufficient for everyday ailments and visits, but Harry was fairly certain she’d have set up elsewhere in anticipation of casualties and injuries in large scale battle.  He’s not quite sure who to ask, but a few soldiers bearing the wounded in on stretchers appear and Harry follows their lead toward the Great Hall where the bench tables have been pushed aside and cots laid out in neat rows.  Luckily, it’s not too far off, and he’s soon embedded in the midst of a post-battle triage.

His eyes find Pomfrey easily, the confident captain in the midst of a hurricane, and he pushes his way through the crowd.  “Madame Pomfrey.”

“Make it quick,” she says, making marks in her book and barely glancing his way.  But she does, see his face, and her shoulders stiffen when she recognizes him, “I’m sorry - ”

Waving away her apology, Harry cuts in, “No matter.  I’m here because,” his voice drops, “The King and Queen are in need of urgent care.  Arthur in particular.”

Her eyes widen and she’s deputized one of her assistants and dragged Harry from the room without another moment of hesitation and soon they’re bustling back down into the catacombs, a fully kitted for whatever ailments face her.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, with deaths miraculously minimal on Gryffindor’s side.  The silver lining of Morsmordre’s treachery meant they had grossly neglected their above-ground assault.  The King is kept from prying eyes, cared for mostly by Madame Pomfrey and an ever doting Molly.

In the following months, the catacombs are restored and the dead re-interred with appropriate solemnity, alongside those who perished in the final battle against Riddle.  The joy at his death spread beyond the walls of Gryffindor, winning over allies too afraid to cross Morsmordre before.

Ron’s not particularly enthused with their newfound friends.  “Don’t know why you all aren’t seeing this my way,” Ron drawls around a mouthful of premium rum from one of their _allies_.

Harry laughs.  “You seem alright with accepting the gifts.”

Shrugging, Ron takes another swallow before passing the bottle Ginny’s way.  “Of course, gifts of delicious alcohols are the least they can do. We saved their arses,” he arches back and shouts toward the dark sky, “You’re welcome, you no good, lazy, cowards.”

“Been holding that in a long time?” Ginny teases.

The campfire crackles as Harry prods it absently, Ron’s mutterings mostly quieted.  It seems the issue has been dropped until Hermione pipes up, a short hiccup followed by one her most prim pronouncements to date, “ _I_ for one, agree with Ron.  These are in-insincere friends.  What’s the point of that?”

Harry droops into Ginny’s lap, nuzzling at her hand until she begins petting him.  “I’m too tired to engage.”

“Such a _baby_ ,” Ginny says, scratching at his scalp, “And Hermione, in answer to your question - and Ron’s - we don’t trust them like we would people who stood with us even against Riddle.  But it’s a necessary part of diplomacy.”

Ron grunts, swiping the rum back from Hermione and aiming the neck at Ginny, accusing.  “Don’t get all high and mighty with me. I saw the looks you gave King Cormac’s delegation.”

“Cormac _is_ an idiot,” Hermione puts in.

Ginny leans back on her palms.  “Thank you. And anyway, I was just pointing out that there _is_ method to everyone’s madness.  I never said I wasn’t unbelievably grateful BIll is the heir to the throne.  I can be written off as the standoffish, brash general.”

Sighing happily in Ginny’s lap, Harry twists a bit, rocks biting into his shoulder.  “Mhm. That’s what I got this morning on the training fields.”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Ginny says with a chuckle, then pitches her voice lower, “As your trainer, I can’t let you get soft - as your bride.  Well I can’t really let you do it then either.”

Hermione snickers while Ron mock-hurls, though Harry can’t find himself bothered by either when Ginny’s eyes are burning not unlike the fire.  Suddenly, he’s never been more awake. “Well that’s enough politics,” Harry finally speaks up, rising to his feet, “Ginny and I had a long day.”

“Please end your story there,” Ron moans.

Laughing, Ginny ruffles Ron’s hair as Harry tugs her toward the castle, “G’night Ronnie.”

* * *

 

Moonlight spears through the curtains, glow bright on Ginny’s milky skin, and Harry can’t help but run his fingers over every bit of her.  “I never dreamed of this.”

Ginny props herself up on one elbow and smirks down at Harry.  “Should I be insulted? Generally, men say things like ‘you’re the woman of my dreams.’”

Laughing softly, Harry strokes her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.  “My point is you’re better than anything I could ever dream up. My life - I thought Figg was a miracle, whatever odd happiness we helped each other find.  Surrogate aunt or something of the like.”

“You miss her,” Ginny says, not a question.

“I do, maybe she could come visit now, just for a week or two.”

“Vernon wouldn’t dare cross you - the world’s savior.”

Harry leans up and presses his lips to hers.  “Co-savior.”

“Yes - cosmically, we have confirmed you couldn’t have done it without me.”

“It feels a little odd though, doesn’t it?”

“No stranger than usual,” Ginny teases, her palm dragging over his chest, stopping to lay flat over his gently beating heart.  He huffs out a laugh and Ginny schools her face into a serious expression. “Elaborate?”

“Up ‘til now, our lives have essentially been predicted, we’ve been at the mercy of the ramblings of a half mad mountain woman.”

A cool breeze raises goosebumps along their skin, sends a shiver up Ginny’s spine.  “I don’t think it controlled us - guided perhaps.”

“And now we’re free.”

“So, then, Harry.  What’ll it be? What’s next?”

Harry twists, rolling Ginny onto her back.  “How’s this, for now?”

* * *

 

Breakfasts, for Harry, tend to be quick even when he has a choice.  His favorite morning lingering usually involves Ginny and a locked door, so when it comes to breakfast, it’s easy and preferably hand-held sustenance.  After a morning filled with his ideal activities - Ginny’s particular brand of wake up and a warm apple turnover - Bill finds Harry meandering toward one of the castle’s many libraries.

“Have a minute?”

“Just off to study magic alone in the library, so please, distract me,” Harry says with a chuckle.  

Bill’s answering grin is playful, reminiscent of his sister but somehow not quite the same.  Which is probably a good thing. “I hope you’re not opposed to magic as part of your requested delay.”

“Theory was more fun when it was my only outlet.  Now that I’ve got a taste of using it - ”

“Well I’ve got just the outlet,” Bill says, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders, “I’ll make sure Hermione knows so you don’t have your head handed to you.”

As it turns out, Bill has been stewing over the apparent ease with which Riddle and his men breached the wards.  Harry, it seems, is his partner of choice to reconfigure and strengthen the protections.

They bury lodestones in strategic locations around the castle, then set compatible configurations at the base of the kingdom’s walls before knitting layer after layer of protection together.  Part of the trick is keying they wards to malicious intent without making it too broad and expelling any citizen of Gryffindor with a normal gripe against a neighbor, or perhaps a desire to punch poncey brother.

“You just pulled that out of nowhere, eh?” Harry says with a smirk.

“Absolutely.  I love all my brothers and have never wanted to punch Percy,” Bill answers without hesitation, a playful twinkle in his eye.  “Want to take point on this one?”

Letting his eyelids drift shut, Harry raises one hand, pushing the other forward with an open palm as the words of invocation flow from his lips.  Magic thrums through his veins, expelling from his fingertips with every exhale until it finally settles into place with a _click_.

Harry returns to the present and finds another has joined their number since he closed his eyes.  “Gin.”

Her mouth opens and closes, rather fish-like, the sun beating down from overhead setting her hair alight and already pricking new freckles to the surface of her skin.”You’re - you - wards?”

“Yeah.  Er- Bill was teaching me.”

“And now Bill is leaving because he doesn’t want to watch his little sister tease her coy husband,” Bill says with a laugh, already walking toward the next lodestone burial site.

“You seem a bit _bothered_ Ginevra,” Harry murmurs as his hands grasp Ginny’s hips gently, pulling her toward him.

She kisses him once, twice, a third time lingering, nipping at his lips.  “I told you my love, call me Ginevra and I _will_ end you.”

“As you wish it,” Harry says with a smile, sketching his most gallant bow before adding, “ _Ginevra_.”

“Oh, that’s it,” Ginny growls, chasing after Harry who’s already taken off running toward the castle gates.  

He leads them through secret passages, barely used corridors, and dusty stairwells until Ginny finally catches him against the door to their quarters.  

“Got me,” Harry says, breathless.

She smiles.  “Got you.”


End file.
